Isabella
by suitablyironicmoniker
Summary: In the Cornish countryside of 1804 England, a foreign visitor brings Isabella to reconsider the inexplicable occurrences she had always taken for granted.
1. A Dream

_My hope is this doesn't appear to be too sharp of a change in direction for those of you who have read my other stories. Jane Austen played a role even in my high school fiction, and Incunabula relied heavily on the European history I've always found fascinating. I completely understand, however, if historical fiction is not to everyone's taste. _

_Familiar elements belong to S. Meyer._

* * *

><p><strong>PART ONE: CORNWALL<strong>

_So exalted was her imagination, so confused were all her thinking faculties, that she stared with wild doubt whether then, or whether now, what she experienced were a dream._

_Camilla, A Picture of Youth  
><em>_Fanny Burney__  
><em>

**one**

She started awake as though woken by a sound—the soft tread of footfalls, the bark of a knock against the bedchamber door, the bated breathing of someone watchful and close. She held her own breath, waiting for the recurrence of whatever had awoken her so abruptly from a fitful sleep.

But there was no sound other than the steady patter of rain against the rooftop, the occasional rush and hum of the wind joining the soothing noise. Only, as she lay staring at the beams of the ceiling, she could not find it at all comforting, however familiar. Her hands were restless beneath the sheets, her breathing agitated.

Isabella was certain something had awoken her. She knew not what—a dream, a sound, some half-remembered worry that had weighed on her mind before she had tucked beneath the counterpane earlier that evening. Her eyes grew only more wakeful and wide as she gazed at the ceiling, searching for an answer she could not grasp, the beat of her heart accelerating as though she had already risen and raced down the shadowed stairs.

She groaned as it occurred to her this was a foregone conclusion; she could not remain abed, so restless and nervous, and she certainly could not sleep with such agitation curling through her limbs. She threw back the sheets and counterpane, cautious of the floorboard next to her bed that had always creaked beneath her weight. Her pace was slow and wary as she approached the bedchamber door, listening for any sign that the only other occupant of the house was awake.

She was soon on the landing, eyes fixed on the door across the corridor, a falsehood ready on her lips should she be found awake and out of her bed at this hour. But no noise stirred from behind the door, and Isabella was soon padding down the narrow staircase to the ground floor, her hands fisted in the long skirt of her cotton nightdress.

She paused in the entryway, as if reconsidering the impulse that had brought her to this point. But after a moment's contemplation, she was bending to tuck her feet into leather boots and pulling a heavy woolen cloak over her shoulders.

The front door creaked, the softest cry of a sound, and she glanced over her shoulder, fearing that any lie that occurred to her now could not possibly be believed. But there was no sound from above stairs and she soon darted through the open crack into the darkness of night.

Isabella flew down gray stone steps to the raked pebble path that led to the cottage door, not daring to look back and spy any observance of her departure. But when she reached the waist-high gate she paused, lifting her head to gaze in either direction down the dark lane. Though the moon was half full, it was obscured by the clouds from whence the rain fell; she could see very little besides the shadowed rise of the hedgerow that bordered the lane. Pulling up the hood of the cloak, she turned instinctively towards the sea, uncertain of what she sought, and equally uncertain of what she might find.

The wind grew more violent as she hurried down the Coast Path, the hum and rush soon bellowing and howling around her hunched figure, the cloak whipping against her legs. But she did not hesitate, a feeling of anticipation pulsing in her chest like the beacon of a light house. She was somehow certain something was waiting for her—as impossible as she knew such a thing to be.

The shadow of the dense hedgerow soon gave way to the open plain high above the sea, the wind whipping into a full fury with nothing to impede its wake. Isabella hesitated, head lifted, eyes narrowed against the lash of rain, fruitlessly trying to make out her surroundings. Memory could have led her forward, this path as familiar to her as her own home. But the darkness was so absolute she could not discern the sea she knew to be directly east; its sound was nearly immersed in that of the wind, the rush and roar so mixed that she knew not where the crash of waves ended and the furious skies began.

She pressed forward, the pulse in her chest no less urgent for having passed the buffer of aged hedgerows. Though she was soon shivering in the folds of the heavy cloak, it did not occur to her to stop and turn back, something inexpressible pushing her on. It was only when she reached the cliff edge, the sound of the ocean her compass, that she paused again, her breath labored, tendrils of dark hair slick against her cheeks. But her vision was no better for being nearer the sea, her only indication that she was arrived her own instinct and the gulf of inky black before her.

Abruptly, a cloud shifted above and the barest sliver of moonlight illuminated the craggy coast and the tumult of ocean before her. But Isabella could not be transported by the sight of crashing waves crested by froths of white, for the feeling of anticipation had been suddenly overcome by the feeling of being watched.

She stilled, fists tightening in her skirts, eyes rapidly scanning the horizon. She knew not what she should see, only that she suddenly felt like prey, hunted. Had she sensed a movement, just out of sight, momentarily revealed by the weak shaft of light above? Or, in that uncanny but utterly normal manner, had she sensed someone's gaze upon her person?

Once, she had seen a mouse frozen in a field freshly scythed, as if pinned into place by the shadow it knew not to be a hawk. Its black eyes had been wide and fearful, furred body rigid with fear. She had pitied the creature at the time but now felt an unexpected affinity for its circumstance.

Then, just as suddenly, the feeling passed. The wind even seemed to calm, the roar of the ocean distinct in her ears. Isabella shook her head and peered around, her shoulders falling from where they'd nearly risen to her ears, her hands loosening their grasp in the folds of her nightdress.

Her lips curved into a grimace before she huffed a sigh of exasperation. _Such fancies_, she thought to herself before gathering up the damp fabric of her cloak and turning back to the path.


	2. Cooler

_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. _

* * *

><p><em>Her head then began to grow cooler, as the fever into which terror and immoderate exercise had thrown her abated, and her memory recovered its functions.<em>

_Evelina, or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**two**

Isabella was unsurprised to find Sheil seated next to the hearth in the kitchen, her hands busy with peeling potatoes, her head bent in apparent focus. A rushlight glinted in a wrought iron holder on the small table at her side, indicating she had risen long before dawn. The fire in the hearth was not stoked high, the embers merely glowing enough to warm the room. Pale morning light shone through the lead panes of the windows opposite the fireplace; though this light was not bright, the sky ever filled with unrelenting clouds, the room did not give the impression of darkness due to the snowy color of the whitewashed walls. Isabella briskly crossed the kitchen and reached for one of the aprons that hung on simple wood pegs next to the back door. She uttered a wary greeting as she slipped it over her head and knotted the ties behind her back, "Good morning, Sheil."

It was as she suspected, Sheil's voice gruff though she did not lift her head from her task. "I saw the mud on your boots, child."

Isabella's mouth quirked at this final word, for it was a subtle reminder that Sheil was her elder, once her nursemaid and now her companion. However many years Isabella might gain, she would always be a child to the gray-haired woman pretending a rapt fascination with her potatoes.

After the slightest pause, Isabella decided it was not wise to protest the term, not when the day had only begun; she imagined there might be many more transgressions she would need Sheil to overlook. Her voice was light as she responded, turning to the large table at the center of the room, intent on returning to the dried herbs she had been sorting the prior day. "I had a strange dream," her gaze remained fixed on the loose thyme and sage she had plucked from the garden the week prior, "and went for a walk."

Sheil gave up any pretense of attending to her chore, her expression shifting from suspicion to outright dismay as a huff of outrage blew past her lips. Isabella's eyes rose, an involuntary reaction to the sound, and she could not look away as she saw the play of emotions crossing Sheil's countenance, clearly struggling to restrain her ire. To her relief the older woman simply exhaled noisily, as if weary of her charge's constant idiosyncrasies.

Isabella's attention returned to the herbs beneath her fingertips but she soon found her gaze rising again at the sound of Sheil's voice, as if the former nursemaid could not restrain herself from registering some verbal disapproval. "Just like your mother." She was already lowering her head to the knife in her hand, quickly shucking at the rough outer skin of the gnarled potato in her opposite fist.

Isabella's lips quirked again for while she did not entirely agree with the sentiment, she saw no use in arguing the point with her companion. And what's more, her sojourn into the lashing storm at the dead of night was quite like something her mother would have done. "Aye," her lips curved in a brief smile. "Just like her."

Isabella only lifted her head from bundling the bunches of herbs and neatly tying them with twine when she heard the tap of Mrs. Hammet's fist against the back door. It opened directly after for it was never latched, heavy pattens tapping against the stone floors as she slipped inside. "Good morning," she greeted the two ladies in sedate tones as she shrugged off her shawl and reached for an apron.

Sheil's response was gruff and Isabella's disproportionately light but Mrs. Hammet either took no notice or thought it best not to comment, silently moving to the array of iron pots and pans hanging above the hearth.

Nearly finished with her task, Isabella briefly enquired as to whether either Mrs. Hammet or Sheil needed her assistance. "Oh, no, Miss Swan," Mrs. Hammet demurred, her response never anything else. Though she was not able to come daily, Mrs. Hammet had never thought it proper that Isabella do more than embroider and practice pianoforte. Such idleness was not possible, however, following the death of Isabella's parents so many years before; there were no funds to continue to keep a retinue of staff at the cottage—and she saw no harm in doing things for herself.

"Ye needn't concern yourself with such as this," Sheil added as she reached for another potato in the pail. "We'll manage supper if you're still aiming to visit the market."

Isabella nodded, smiling as she saw Sheil's mood had lifted. "I'll see to the garden while I wait for Mr. Connor." Mrs. Hammet's eldest son was to retrieve her later that morning on his way to Penzance. Like his mother, he lived only a short distance from Swan Cottage on land that had been owned by Isabella's father. Their rents, as well as the annuity from her father's military pension, were her only income.

"Don't forget your bonnet—" But Isabella was already through the door which Mrs. Hammet had entered minutes before, a basket over her arm, the smile on her lips unfaltering.

Though the sky was white with a pall of high clouds, Isabella initially squinted upon gaining the out of doors for it was still much brighter than the shadowed kitchen lit only by the flickering hearth and weak rushlight. She paused on the brick steps that led down into the garden, breathing deeply of the rain fresh air.

The garden was enclosed by a wrought iron fence that was mottled with patches of orange red, rusted through where the constant damp had eroded the iron. Given there were few wild animals that threatened the small store of vegetables and herbs that grew among the blooms, neither Isabella or her mother had prioritized restoring the disintegrating metal.

Close to the stone walls of the cottage were the roses Renée had prized, the thorny branches delicate where new spring growth had sprouted. Beyond were neat rows of vegetables, cucumber, squash, parsnip, turnip and potato, all in various states of growth. Mixed within were the stalks and bushes of hardier herbs, rosemary, loveage, yarrow, sage, and thyme, with mint in clay pots to prevent it from overtaking the soil around it. Bordering the array of vegetables and herbs were the flowers Isabella's grandmother had cultivated and which Renée had lovingly maintained after marrying Major Swan and settling in his homeland: delphiniums, hollyhock, honeysuckle clambering through the wrought iron twirls of the fence, the green spears of daffodils, and thorny gorse. Little of it was blooming now but there were buds and shoots everwhere; spring was imminent.

As she moved into the garden, Isabella found the long sleeves of her walking gown were more than sufficient against the mild weather, the blue cotton darkening when she brushed against wet leaves. Mud squelched beneath her boots, evidence of the storm the night before, while excess water dripped steadily from the eaves of the cottage.

Despite the mud and damp, Isabella's heart felt light for this was one of her favored places, perhaps more so than any other at Swan Cottage. For it so reminded her of her mother, and the many hours Isabella had spent with her there as a child.

Isabella stooped to a battered rose bush, pulling a set of gloves from the pocket of her apron before carefully lifting the thorny, fragrant branches. Buds, tightly twirled, had just begun to form, near hidden by wide, deep green leaves. A smile crossed her lips for she could recall the blossoms nigh opening beneath her mother's touch…though she knew this was just a fancy of childhood imagination.

The smile faltered as she thought of the strange impulse that had pulled her from her bed the night before, and Sheil's surly claim that morning. Isabella quickly shook her head and returned to setting the plant aright, carefully tying the new stems to the thicker, older branches in the hopes of preventing the gangly growth from becoming bowed and trampled. She did not agree with Sheil but saw no purpose in belaboring the point with her companion. Isabella thought herself nothing like her mother, bearing only a passing resemblance to the miniature which rested on the fireplace mantel in the front sitting room. Renée's bright loveliness was apparent even in the simple strokes of the portrait, her amber curls piled high, teeth glinting behind a coquettish smile.

That was how Isabella preferred to remember the sparkling force of nature that had been her mother, happy, flighty, and full of charm. Even with Charles' frequent absences on the Continent and elsewhere, her lightness had rarely faltered. Isabella touched the restored buds of the rose bush, her mind full of memories of Renée, briefly wondering if her recollection truly was childhood fancy…

Of course, it was difficult to know for certain since Renée had died shortly before Isabella's twelfth birthday. For all of Renée's abilities to nurse others back to health, nothing had been able to restore her to her former self after she had learned of her husband's death.

Isabella stilled, fingers hovering above the closed bloom, brown eyes blank and staring. Her memory of that day was still vivid, and it was one she could not attribute to childhood imagination. Her eyes sank shut as she recalled how her head had been bent over the keys of the pianoforte, weary of practicing but certain it was too soon to beg off from playing. The crash of dishes had so startled her that her fingers had fisted over the keys, the discordant notes groaning in her ears as her head jerked upright.

She had flown from the bench, terrified of the cries she could hear from the corridor, pale with fear. She had frozen upon finding her mother on her knees, the tea tray a mess of broken dishes and cutlery before her, the rug beneath stained with amber water. Renée was sobbing, her features riddled with torment, her hands fisted in her hair. "Charles!" she had cried, the word a howl. "Charles!"

"Maman…" Isabella had begun, unable to understand why her mother should be so distraught for her father—for he was miles away, stationed in Ireland these past months, his letters arriving with the post every week.

But it was as if Renée did not see her, tears streaking down her face, her body trembling where she kneeled over the broken dishes. "Oh, no…oh, God, no!" she moaned. Sheil had soon appeared, even then unable to move as quickly as she once had, her gnarled hands on Renée's shoulders, attempting to soothe the hysterical woman.

It had taken some time to ascertain that Renée believed Charles was in trouble, and nothing anyone said could convince her otherwise. She had only grown calm when given a dose of laudanum, drifting into a troubled sleep in the bed she shared with her husband when he was home on furlough. Isabella had never known what to make of the fact that several days had passed before the black-edged letter arrived from Charles' commander, full of condolences for the loss of such a fine soldier.

She shook off the memory, forcing herself to move down the muddy path to the next rose bush, quickly stooping to begin righting its bedraggled branches. She vastly preferred to remember her mother contented and smiling—or even ecstatic and vibrant, as Renée could not help being whenever Charles was home. Isabella could picture the easy smile that had graced her father's features when he was in Renée's presence, their hands frequently joined upon the dining room table.

Despite the warmth of this memory, she could not fully dismiss a tendril of unease, too similar in nature to what she had felt the night before.

She continued tending to the garden, righting what had been battered by the storm, plucking away weeds and snails, and, when she was certain neither Sheil nor Mrs. Hammet were passing the open kitchen door, tucking two carrots into the pocket of her apron.

Isabella straightened as she discerned the approach of the Hammet's dray horse and cart, lifting a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she approached the fence in expectation of Mr. Connor's arrival. But the cart did not appear, the lane empty, and a line flitted between her dark brows as the minutes ticked by. Just as she was wondering if she had mistook the clatter of branches against the stone walls of the cottage, or the rough whisper of the sea breeze for the steady trop of horse hooves and creaking wagon wheels, the cart finally pulled into view.

As she observed Connor hop down from the bench seat and loop the reins around the hitch, she realized her mind was already decided. "Good day, Mr. Connor," she called. "How do you do?"

"Fair enough, Miss Swan, fair enough," he nodded in greeting, tipping the soft cap on his head as he crossed the few steps to her side. "Be ye ready for the market?" She could hear the hesitation in his voice for she wore no bonnet, her basket heavy with herbs and a few root vegetables.

"I do apologize," Isabella's smile was genuinely contrite. "I don't believe I will go as far as Penzance today." She tilted her head. "The market in Mousehole should suffice, I think."

Connor nodded before offering, "I can take ye as far as the village."

"Oh, no," Isabella shook her head. "I—" she hesitated, her gaze lifting to the sky, escaping the curiosity in his countenance. "I need the air."

"Is Miss feeling well?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Connor," Isabella smiled. Her brown eyes shone as she added, "You know I prefer the out of doors."

"Aye, Miss," Connor smiled in turn. "Enjoy your walk," he called as he swung back into the cart.

Isabella watched as the cart continued down the muddy lane before turning back to the cottage, shoulders squaring as she knew his wasn't the last bemused reaction she must respond to. "Was that Connor?" Mrs. Hammet asked as Isabella ducked through the low kitchen door and set her basket on the table.

She nodded, her gaze on her hands as she tugged off her gloves. "Yes, but I asked him to go to Penzance without me." She lifted a shoulder as she smoothed her hair with a negligient hand. "'Twas only boredom that led me to think I should go to the market there—the market in Mousehole should have all we need."

"Aye, and so I told ye when ye first asked to travel to Penzance with Mr. Connor," Sheil grumbled. "If you'll but wait a moment, I'll don my bonnet."

"Oh, no, Sheil, there's no need," Isabella protested as she lifted a fresh basket from a hook near the door. "You know the pace I prefer—and I know your knees could not withstand it."

Sheil was still half-risen from her stool near the hearth, her faded eyes wide and affronted. "Why, I used to slow my pace when ye were in leading strings!"

"Aye, I know, Sheil," Isabella allowed. "But 'tis a damp day and I also know you'd prefer to stay by the fire."

Sheil slowly lowered herself back onto the stool, hands on her knees, her offense subsiding. Then, recalling her duties to her charge, she loudly bid, "But wear your bonnet, child! Even if the sun is weak—"

"Yes, yes, Sheil," Isabella acquiesced. "Of course."

She could still hear the grumbling of her companion as she passed from the kitchen into the corridor and towards the front of the cottage. Quickly, she raced up the stairs to her bedchamber and, finding her bonnet, jerked it over her head before hurrying back through the door.

Isabella was soon through the house and outside, hesitating on the front steps. By day, her surroundings were far less ominous and mysterious, the sky cloudy but light. The yard before the house was bordered by the same wrought iron fence that circled the garden at the rear; here however, there were only a few hardy lavender bushes, the light partly blocked by the tall hedgerow running the length of the lane directly beyond the fence. The track was narrow and rarely used, leading west and inland, to St. Buryan, as well as east, to the Coast Path. Inhaling deeply, Isabella gripped her basket tightly and hurried down the path to the gate, re-tracing the steps she'd made only the night before.


	3. Spring of Nothing

_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>How much is written of Pigme's, Fairies, Nymphs, Syrens, Apparitions, which tho not the tenth Part true, yet could not spring of nothing!<em>

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies, Robert Kirk_

**three**

But then, Isabella did not turn south on the winding Coast Path which followed the jagged Cornish shore as far as St. Levan. Instead, she turned north, her demeanor light as she swung the basket in her hand, the ribbons of her simple straw bonnet loosely knotted beneath her chin. It was too late in the morning to encounter drovers herding their sheep to the Tuesday markets, though evidence of their passing was to be seen in the manure that marked the path, and the mud churned into a mire by dozens of hooves. Isabella briefly pondered purchasing a side of mutton but quickly dismissed the notion as too extravagant. Perhaps a few small birds to be roasted by Mrs. Hammet instead, the bones then used for soup.

She was distracted by these thoughts as she approached Raginnis' fields, the high hedgerows giving way to the crossed beams of wooden fencing. Surreptitiously, she turned her head, scanning the path for the presence of others, brown eyes wide and watchful. But there was no one, no tardy drovers, no farmers intent on reaching the market, no ambling young ladies like herself, enjoying a day free of rainfall.

Her steps were swift and purposeful as she crossed to the field, a smile spreading over her lips as she saw the shaggy bull had already begun approaching the fence. The massive creature was placidly chewing a mouthful of rich green grass, the bulging muscles along his shoulders and neck shifting beneath his reddish hide as he slowly ambled towards Isabella. He bowed his head as she reached the fence, like a gentleman expecting her call. She could not help a soft laugh at the thought.

Isabella reached into the pocket of her apron, retrieving the carrots she had tucked away there that morning. She did not hesitate as she offered the gnarled vegetables through the rails of the fence, unafraid as the enormous bull's breath warmed her fingers. She had often heard tell that Raginnis' bull was ill-tempered and unpredictable but she had never experienced as much.

"No, you are a gentle thing," she murmured, briefly brushing her hand against the bull's soft, damp nose. The bull simply snorted in response before tossing its shaggy head, as if in agreement with the young lady lingering before it.

Realizing she would have to create a tale to excuse the length of her absence if she dawdled much longer, Isabella turned from the bull with a sigh and returned to the Coast Path. But it was not long before the smile had returned to her lips, simply joyful to be out of doors, a hint of spring in the sea air, the green of the countryside bright and rich with the recent rainfall. She had always been calmed by this, by the wide open expanse of the rural coast; it was as if she could not be confined by walls and windows, only at home here beneath the gray skies, a breeze tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet.

The path turned ahead, briefly angling away from the shore. A copse of wooded brush arched over the muddy lane there, young ash trees studded with a few tall poplars, bristly rowan bushes crowding close and low. The trees were a haven for local birds, and were usually filled with chirps and calls. Isabella didn't realize she was holding her breath until she was beneath the branches, as if unwilling to disturb the unexpected silence she found in those shadows. Her pace slowed, glancing up to the gray branches of ash, and higher, to the straight boughs of poplars. But there was no flutter of raven or gull, as if all the birds had simply fled.

Isabella unthinkingly quickened her step, hurrying towards the brightness beyond the stand of trees, white and glaring in contrast to the shadowed wood.

Though the only sound was her own breath in her ears, she realized with a sudden certainty that someone was coming—though she heard no footfalls nor tramp of horses hooves. The hair on her nape was alive, like heated coils against her skin, her heart stuttering against her ribs. She turned at the same moment that the gentleman spoke. Only later would it occur to her that he appeared as surprised as she, a flash of something she could not identify crossing his expression.

But she was soon too distracted to recall this briefest of reactions, for though his words were innocuous and apologetic, she was captivated by his voice and fascinated by his appearance. "I hope I didn't startle you." He bowed low, for which she was thankful as it gave her time to compose her features, closing her gaping mouth and attempting to appear less dumbfounded. His accent did not bear the Cornish burr to which she was accustomed, the lilt foreign and yet somehow familiar.

"No, sir," she quietly responded as she cast her eyes to the ground, unable to meet his gaze as he straightened to his full height—though she could not imagine why this should be as she had never been timid.

The gentleman continued, his voice rich and smooth. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me where this road leads."

Isabella managed to raise her gaze, forcing her breath to steady as she again absorbed the beauty and richness of his appearance. His powdered features were even and young, his jaw defined, the darkness of his brows a stark contrast to his pale complexion. The lace at his wrists and collar, the velvet of his waistcoat, and the gleaming leather of his boots all marked him as a gentleman, his erect posture and refined speech emphasizing this truth. Isabella swallowed, realizing he was still awaiting her response. "To Mousehole."

It was only then that she noted no horse stood hobbled behind him, her brow furrowing as her gaze shifted from his handsome features, vainly seeking a steed in the distance. What was more, no hat covered his dark hair or hung from his gloved hands, both marks of his status that were surprising in their absence.

"Is it much farther?" he asked, forcing her attention to return to him. There was a brief pause before the question and Isabella felt a sudden certainty that he was searching for something to say, as if looking for an excuse to continue speaking to her. The thought filled her with a strange thrill, her eyes wide as they again fell to the shadowed ground.

"Only another mile," she answered, wondering why she was having such trouble breathing against her stays, her palms damp with sweat around the handle of her straw basket.

The gentleman nodded his head in acknowledgement and Isabella found herself unable to move—though she knew she should curtsy and continue on her way. As the seconds passed, she realized the gentleman was equally disinclined to return to his journey—though his stance was much easier and unaffected than her own. Swallowing, unable to help her curiosity, she finally asked, "Did you lose your mount?" Though she knew Sheil would chide her for her boldness, Isabella told herself she was unlikely to encounter such a gentleman again and could not resist extending the brief exchange. She had little doubt that he was simply a traveler passing through, likely lost on these country lanes.

The gentleman paused before responding with a wry laugh. "Ah, yes—the beast bolted—startled by a hare." His black eyes shined as he held her gaze. "Likely too accustomed to the city."

Isabella was unaware of how the fascination that had been apparent in her expression abruptly faded, her lips briefly pressing together before she dropped into a swift curtsy. "I see." She nodded as she turned to continue down the lane, calling over her shoulder with obligatory politeness. "Good day."

But the gentleman fell into step beside her, matching her brisk pace with long, easy strides. "I do beg your pardon, Miss, but as this was the direction in which I was traveling—"

"Of course," Isabella nodded courteously but did not meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on the road before her.

He seemed not to note the shift in her manner, his tone easy as he asked, "Do you call Mousehole your home?"

Reluctantly, Isabella shook her head, brown eyes briefly darting in his direction. Though she had determined to take her leave after discerning the lie he had told about his horse, she found herself biting her lip, longing to ask him a question in turn. Finally, the words burst forth, her curiosity too great.

"And where are you from?"

"Châteauroux," he answered quickly and seemed startled—as was she—by the realization that this time he had told the truth.

"You are French," she responded, the word a surprised statement rather than a question. While she knew it to be her mother's native land, and that her father had often been stationed there with the British army, she had never met any other native of that place. Further, with the turmoil that had followed the revolution, it had become increasingly rare to hear it spoken of without concern or ire. At the very least, this accounted for the familiarity she felt upon hearing his accent.

"It is south of Paris," he acknowledged, bowing his uncovered head. "My family had lived there for many years."

Isabella's curiosity was again piqued by the indication that this was no longer the case but she forced herself to hold her tongue. She was already filled with an awareness of the length of their conversation given they had not been formally introduced, her cheeks warming at the thought of what Sheil would say should she know.

Fortunately, the gentleman seemed not to note her consternation; indeed, his gaze was fixed on everything but the young lady at his side, steadily scanning the surrounding countryside with a focus that was somehow relaxed and yet thorough. Isabella's brow furrowed as she was certain he could not be looking for his supposedly lost steed; the moment he'd spoken the words regarding the bolted horse and the unexpected hare, she had known it to be a falsehood.

She found herself speaking though she had intended to repress her curiosity, the words rushing past her lips without caution. "You'll be able to hire a mount in Mousehole." When he did not respond she nervously added, "Or a carriage. There is a coaching inn—though I believe the coach only departs on Wednesdays."

His black eyes finally turned from the distant copse of rowans and wild gorse north of the path, as if recalling her existence. "I see," he replied, lips pursing as if her words were not to his liking.

"If 'tis what you require," Isabella finished, then blushed at how pointed the statement appeared, her curiosity apparent.

"Yes…" The single word lingered in the air and his attention drifted back to their surroundings. Flustered, irritated with herself for feeling such self-consciousness, desperately wishing the heat in her cheeks would subside, Isabella increased her pace, hoping the distracted gentleman would fall behind. Perhaps he would attribute her near trot to a country girl's rough manners. Perhaps he would think she was late for an engagement and needed to hurry to ensure her timely arrival. The reason did not matter—she simply had to escape his company.

But somehow he matched her pace without at all appearing to exert himself, his strides ever easy and long. Though she was soon breathing deeply against her stays, lips parted, cheeks flushed and warm, he appeared unaffected, his pale brow naked of sweat. Isabella could have sworn in frustration.

"If I were to continue on this road," he finally asked, breaking the silence that was only marked by her strained breathing, "which towns would follow after Mousehole?"

Isabella found she must slow her pace to respond, her irritation apparent as she glanced in his direction. "Newlyn and Wherrytown—and then Penzance."

"Ah," he nodded, his dark head tilting—and she was again struck by the notion that he already knew the answer and was simply seeking to continue their conversation.

"And I will find an inn in Mousehole?" The gentleman prompted her again and she could not help her gaze lingering on his countenance, wondering if he was mocking her. Otherwise, she could not escape the notion that he was trying to prove he had been listening to her. To her confusion, she could only see benign curiosity in his expression, no raillery evident in a sly smile or muffled laugh.

Isabella finally nodded, "Yes, on the Parade." But why should he care of her opinion? Her simple walking dress, unadorned by any bright print or embroidery, and nearly covered by a serviceable apron, was ample evidence of her modest means. She resisted lifting a hand to her bonnet, which she knew to be naked of feathers or trimmings, her chestnut hair simply pinned at her nape. She was unaccompanied by a servant, her leather boots thick with mud as she disliked wearing pattens, prefering the brisk pace discarding them allowed.

They were rising a crest beyond which the village would spread below, the harbor directly ahead. She suppressed a start of surprise that they were nearly arrived, the time having passed far more quickly than she had realized. With words of farewell on her lips, Isabella turned to face the gentleman, pushing aside vain wishes that she might have discovered the reason behind the oddity of their encounter.

The gentleman, however, was already speaking—and it took her several seconds to register the meaning behind his words, for his manner was ever easy and unaffected, languid curiosity glinting behind the sweep of his black lashes.

"Do disagreeable bulls always turn so docile for you?"

As Isabella made sense of his question, her eyes flared wide as her lips wordlessly parted. She could feel the warmth of blood surging up her throat, her cheeks suddenly hot with a mix of embarrassment, surprise, and confusion. How had he been observing her for so long when she had so carefully tried to ensure she was alone in her childish errand? If he was a stranger to the neighborhood, how did he know the reputation of Raginnis' bull? Had he been following her? Why had she failed to hear him when Sheil had always claimed it was impossible to surprise her? And what purpose had he in asking her this question, so deliberately flustering her?

Isabella could not think how to respond to his question and therefore ignored it, simply curtsying as she blurted the words she had been planning to say before he interrupted her. "We're nearly there and I'm going to the market while I expect you'll want the coaching inn which is in the opposite direction." The statement was a garbled stream, her hands shaking as she dropped into another clumsy curtsy before swiftly darting down the road.

There was a fork immediately ahead and she hurried to the left, listening with dread and anticipation for the sound of his steps behind her. But she did not hear him follow and she could not bring herself to turn her head to see whether he watched her go.


	4. Wicked

_One of my Christmas gifts last year was a subscription to the OED. I was surprised to find that the word 'lanolin' didn't come into common usage until the 1880s. The things you learn! Thanks for reading and reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>Don't be so puffed up with your own perfections, as to imagine that, because other persons allow themselves liberties you cannot take, therefore they must be wicked.<em>

_Pamela: or, Virtue Rewarded  
><em>_Samuel Richardson_

**four**

"Child! Do ye not heed my voice?"

Isabella started and the needle tenuously gripped between her forefinger and thumb slipped from her hand, disappearing into the folds of her skirts. Having had the unpleasant experience of finding lost needles while dressing or disrobing, she instantly jumped to her feet and smiled to see the needle slip to the floorboards, a tendril of white thread trailing from its eye.

"Isa!" Sheil appeared in the open door of the front sitting room, one gnarled hand braced against the frame, faded blue eyes vaguely panicked. She only used the shortened form of Isabella's name when she was genuinely worried; it was the same name Charles had always used for his daughter when he was home on furlough.

"I'm so sorry, Sheil," Isabella apologized. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"I called your name four times," the nursemaid panted, short of breath from having hurried from the rear of the house.

"I-I—" Isabella had no response for she hadn't been playing music or lost in a book. If anything, she should have been eager to escape the mending she only ever took in hand when she no longer had a choice, every petticoat in her wardrobe trailing torn hems, every stocking marked by gaping holes.

"Aye, aye," Sheil nodded as she turned back to the corridor. "Lost in a daydream, I'd wager—as ye have been since Tuesday sennight." She gestured, an impatient motion. "One of Bannion's ewes is wedged in the fence again. Ye know you're the only that can calm the animal enough for us to free it."

"Yes, of course." Isabella nodded, quickly setting aside the garment she'd been mending and following Sheil through the door. She trailed the stooped figure of the older woman down the narrow corridor, past the front stairs to the kitchen. She was unsurprised to see that Mrs. Hammet was not bent over the hearth, steadily turning a roasting bird or stirring a stew, likely having darted outside the moment she heard the distressed bleats of the ewe.

It was as she suspected, though it was clear her delay meant the poor ewe had nigh exhausted itself in the meantime, its wooly body sagging where it stood. Mrs. Hammet hovered near, a crock of hog's lard cradled in her arm, head bent as she tried to soothe the aggravated sheep with soft murmurs. On the other side of the wrought iron fence, Mr. Bannion had clearly just given up attempting to wrest the animal from between the wrought iron posts by force, his hands braced on his hips in exasperation, his hat askew on his head. His gaze lifted as he sensed Isabella's approach, his expression growing wary as he spoke, "Begging your pardon, Miss Swan." He straightened his hat. "I'd think this creature would have learned by now that reaching for the clover ain't worth it."

"It's no trouble, Mr. Bannion," she replied as she approached the drover and his ewe, brown eyes falling to where the animal's fleecy neck rested against the wrought iron posts. Mrs. Hammet silently stepped aside, though Sheil's voice called behind her.

"I cannot see how she could have gotten in, but somehow fails to get out!"

Isabella stooped, lowering a hesitant, gentle hand to the ewe's nose. "But it's so tempting, isn't it?" she murmured, the words not loud enough for Sheil to hear though Mr. Bannion gazed down at her lowered head suspiciously. Isabella did not note his stare, too focused on the weary sheep, gently running her fingers past its ears and around its neck, trying to ascertain how tightly it was trapped.

The ewe's breath blew out against her skirts, a tired sound. "Aye," she softly agreed. "You likely might have stood here forever." She could see it was more panic than size that had led to the sheep becoming caught. As she ran her hands around the sheep's fleecy neck once more, it almost seemed to come to understand this as well, gently pulling back from her grasp and freeing itself from between the fence posts.

Mr. Bannion and Mrs. Hammet gasped simultaneously but Isabella simply lifted a nonchalant shoulder as she straightened to her full height. "She only needed to calm herself a moment."

Mr. Bannion's expression was inscrutable as he tipped the soft cap on his head. "Thank ye, Miss," he muttered before turning away. The sheep had already skittered ahead of him on eager hooves, clearly relieved to be free.

Isabella watched him go, hoping he knew she'd spoken honestly—it truly wasn't any trouble, however long it might have taken her to respond to Sheil's calls.

The nursemaid had a differing opinion of his demeanor, however, her voice baleful as she said, "Ye think he'd be more grateful." Isabella frowned, uncertain this was fair.

"Well, it certainly isn't convenient for him to discover one of his flock missing, and to re-trace his steps only to find one greedy ewe isn't simply dawdling or stuck in a ditch."

"Ye are generous, child," Sheil muttered as they returned to the cottage. "Just like Mrs. Renée." Isabella could think of no response and so remained silent as she wiped hands dirty with wool-oil on an apron hanging near the door. She hesitated before continuing through the kitchen to the corridor that led to the front of the house, watching as Sheil settled herself on the chair near the hearth.

"May I help with anything?"

But Sheil was shaking her head before the words had fully escaped Isabella's mouth, gesturing with a negligent hand towards the door where Mrs. Hammet had just appeared. "No, child, we're nearly finished with the baking."

Isabella nodded, uncertain why she felt such reluctance to leave the presence of Sheil and Mrs. Hammet. Perhaps it was because the sitting room was so quiet, the silence infrequently interrupted by the clop of passing riders or creaking carriages. Of course, she thought, solitude had never concerned her before. Perhaps it was because her mind was lately so distracted, her attention frequently straying from whatever task she knew she should be focused upon—though she was loath to admit the reason…

Isabella paused as she reached the threshold of the sitting room, eyes caught by the sun that had begun to shine, a golden light casting through the two casement windows facing the lane. Her eyes shifted to the mantel, where the miniature of her mother rested alongside one of two silver candlesticks; these flanked a clock of ormolu and bronze Renée had brought with her from France. Isabella drifted to the empty hearth, her fingers rising to the mantel edge; her gaze lifted from the familiar image in the miniature to the gilt-edged looking glass that hung above the fireplace, intended to reflect and intensify the candle light. Brown eyes framed by dark lashes gazed back. She was briefly surprised to see her complexion was still fair despite how often she failed to don her bonnet. She tucked a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, wondering how she would look if she had a maid who could dress her hair in the latest style, with short curls framing her temples and forehead.

"Ugh!" Isabella pushed away from the looking glass with a sudden exclamation of frustration, disgusted with herself. She did not have a ladies maid and thinking about such fancies would not make it so. She had always been content with all she had; why should she long for anything more now?

Just as she was gathering her mending in her hands and taking a seat in the upholstered armchair nearest the fireplace, a knock sounded on the front door.

She was on her feet when she saw Sheil quickly pass the open door of the sitting room, a gnarled hand waving at her to remain where she was. She heard the front door creak open followed by the sound of shuffling feet and masculine voices. "Good day, Miss Cadwallader! How do you do?" The bright words rang out in greeting, addressing Sheil by the surname Isabella had never been able to pronounce as a small child.

"Very well, Mr. Eldritch, very well," Sheil replied. "Mr. James," she added as she escorted the two men to the front sitting room, their greatcoats draped over her arm.

Isabella curtsied as the two men turned through the door, the elder smiling and eager as he swept his hat off his thinning hair, his youngest son less exuberant though equally polite. "Miss Swan, I trust you are in good health?" Mr. Eldritch asked as he dipped into a brief bow. They both wore riding clothes, though Mr. James sported a more fashionable double waistcoat.

"Very well, Mr. Eldritch." She gestured to the settee opposite her armchair. "Please have a seat." The village councilman did as she bade, sinking into the creaking cushions with a bright smile, his son soon following. "I do hope you have time for tea?" While Mr. Eldritch had been only slightly acquainted with her father, he had been exceedingly kind after Charles' death. Though she did not require the charity that was his responsibility to manage as a village councilman, his sentiment did not allow him to disregard the plight of an orphan. Though she had been ignorant of it at the time, she later learned he had written many letters attempting to find a surviving relative after the deaths of her parents, and had ensured the maintenance of the agreement with the Hammets that secured their continued rental of the Swan farmland.

"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Eldritch's smile had yet to fade from his rosy face, the blue of his eyes bright as he enquired again after her health and that of Sheil, who had disappeared to hang their coats and fetch tea from the kitchen.

"Very well, Mr. Eldritch," she smiled. "Though I believe the ewe I helped free from the fence this morning might be the worse for wear."

Mr. Eldritch laughed in response. "Another one of Bannion's errant sheep?"

"But of course," Isabella smiled again before launching into the story, painting the details in lights both ridiculous and absurd: Sheil's panic, Mr. Bannion's exasperation, Mrs. Hammet's failed attempts with hog lard, and, at the center of it all, the bedraggled sheep. Mr. Eldritch was soon roaring with laughter while his son, who was generally less inclined to revelry, was fighting chuckles as well.

"Mr. Bannion should truly keep closer watch of his flock," Mr. James shook his head. He had the fairness his father had boasted at a young age, his blond hair long around his ears, a faint mustache over his lips.

"It was no trouble," Isabella shook her head, recalling Mr. Bannion's surliness as he'd departed. Then, changing the subject, "I trust you are stopping in on your way to see Mr. Lawrence?"

Mr. Eldritch's elder son had married a lady native to St. Buryan, four miles west of Mousehole. She was the only daughter to a gentleman with extensive properties in the area, hence Mr. Lawrence relocating to her home rather than remaining in Mousehole. Swan Cottage was en route to St. Buryan and Mr. Eldritch had made a habit since his son's marriage of calling on Isabella whenever he made his way there for a visit.

Mr. Eldritch nodded, glancing to the door as Sheil returned laden with a tray of cups, saucers, silverware, a steaming urn, and the spouted pot for tea. A wooden caddy filled with Bohea leaves rested in the midst of the tea service; like her mother, Isabella had never bothered to lock it, implicitly trusting both Sheil and Mrs. Hammet.

"I hope Mr. Lawrence is well?" Sheil asked as she placed the tea service on the small cherry table set between Isabella and the two Eldritch gentlemen, before taking a seat herself.

"I'm certain we'll find this is so," Mr. Eldritch nodded.

"And do you bring news from Mousehole?" the former nursemaid asked. Isabella grinned in Sheil's direction as she arranged the tea, unsurprised to find her companion eager to hear the latest gossip.

Mr. Eldritch was happy to oblige. "Mr. Jenks traveled as far as Perran Downs for the funeral of the blacksmith there—apparently their vicar has been ill this past month and there was no one else to perform the service."

"And he traveled safely?" Sheil asked as she took the proffered cup of tea Isabella was extending.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Eldritch nodded.

"Though he complained of encountering a violent rainstorm upon his return," Mr. James added.

"Yes, yes," his father nodded at this additional detail, lips pursing with thought before he took the cup and saucer of tea Isabella gestured were his. "Ah, and we've had a newcomer to Mousehole!" His eyes grew bright as he spoke, though Isabella wasn't certain if his pleasure was in conveying the news or with the news itself.

Mr. Eldritch went on, "A Frenchman by the name of Maçon." Though he did not appear to note how Isabella's porcelain tea cup rattled in its saucer, she did not dare raise her gaze, knowing Sheil's eyes would be fixed upon her, missing nothing. "I'm given to understand he's lost an expensive horse—"

"Stolen, more likely," Mr. James wryly added.

"Come, James, always so ill-willed?" His father briefly chided him before continuing, "He has no valet but turns quite a fine heel—and insists on searching for the horse himself though I'm sure any number of the local children would take up the task for a shilling or two."

"Perhaps fearing the finder might keep the discovery to himself?" Sheil asked.

"Ah, now you sound like James," Mr. Eldritch laughed. Isabella couldn't help a faint smile at his good nature.

"It must be an exceedingly fine horse to inspire such a devoted search." The wry tilt of Mr. James full lips indicated his suspicion; Isabella cast her gaze to her tea, unwilling to give any indication she suspected his doubts to have some basis in truth. After all, she had no proof other than her own conviction.

"Rumor has it," Mr. Eldritch continued, "that he's a nobleman of some sort."

"If only given his manners and garb," Mr. James added, the envy apparent in his voice.

Mr. Eldritch leaned back, "If that's the case, he's escaped Bonaparte's nonsense just in time."

Isabella seized on this observation, expertly diverting the conversation to the Corsican causing such upheaval on the Continent, shifting the topic from village gossip to politics. The foursome soon finished their tea, Mr. James taking a pinch of snuff after settling his cup in its saucer on the cherry table, while Mr. Eldritch made various motions indicating they must be on their way. Isabella rose, thanking them both for calling, while Sheil creaked to her feet and offered to fetch their coats and show them to the door.

Isabella had bent her head to her sewing by the time Sheil returned to the sitting room to clear the tea tray. She did not dare raise her eyes to the knowing older woman, gaze fixed on the needle and fabric in her hands. Sheil, however, did not need Isabella's gaze to gain her attention. "I never could stand that young Mr. James."

Isabella's eyes flew from her mending, briefly wondering if Sheil hadn't noticed the surprise she'd failed to hide when Mr. Eldritch mentioned the newcomer; she had no doubt it was the same gentleman she'd met on the Coast Path the week before. But Sheil was simply shuffling towards the settee the Eldritches had been occupying, easing down onto the cushions and leaning back with a weary sigh. "He always looks as if he smells something foul."

Isabella's laugh was partly one of surprise as well as amusement. "Perhaps food crumbs caught in his mustache," she answered, her attention returning to her needle as she drew it through the torn hem she was mending. She had never held a high opinion of the younger Mr. Eldritch, having witnessed too many instances of his lack of sensibility from childhood; whether kicking a stray cat from his path or discourteousness with clerks and servants, he had somehow failed to inherit any of his father's kindness and good nature.

"Mayhap," Sheil nodded, lifting a hand to straighten the mob cap covering her gray hair. "But that mustache ain't thick enough to catch much in the way of food."

Isabella's laugh was all amusement now, but it abruptly cut short as Sheil added, "You perked up at the mention of that Frenchman."

Isabella would have given many things to curtail the blush which was heating her cheeks, her hands fisting in the fabric bundled on her lap to conceal their trembling. A lie instinctively rose to her lips but seeing Sheil's narrowed eyes, she knew it was no use. Sighing, Isabella returned her gaze to her sewing though her needle was now forgotten. "I believe I met him a few days ago when I walked in to Mousehole."

Sheil nodded knowingly, lips pursing. "So is that's what's behind all your dreamy stares, mislaying your thimble and failing to hear me calling your name?"

Isabella straightened in her chair, prickly with defensiveness. "You heard Mr. Eldritch. 'He turns a fine heel.' Why would a gentleman, possibly a nobleman, have any interest in a country girl?"

But Sheil would hear none of it, her own spine straightening as she leaned forward on the seat cushion. "You are the daughter of a gentlewoman and a fine lieutenant of the British army. You have no reason to hang your head!"

Isabella sighed, inwardly chastising herself for forgetting Sheil's deep fondness for Charles, even all these years after his death. Sheil took pride in her service to the Swan family, having been Charles' nursemaid when he was first born, then housekeeper and companion to his mother after Charles had joined the army—and finally Isabella's nursemaid after he returned to Mousehole with a charming French bride. Isabella's lips parted, her response soft, "That may be the case," her shoulders lifted and fell. "Nonetheless, my circumstances are much reduced. There can be no interest there."

But her deferential tone did nothing to allay Sheil's ire, the servant's gnarled finger rising to point at the ceiling with increasing passion. "I'll not have you hang your head—nay, child, I won't!" She shook her head vigorously. "A gentleman without scruples—he might take advantage of a girl with no pride, a girl ashamed of her circumstances—"

"Sheil," Isabella interrupted as her own anger flared to life, brows lowering over brown eyes. "I am not ashamed."

"Aye, and for what reason could ye be?" Sheil asked, hands lowering to her hips. "Get mad, child, get spitting mad—for I'd rather see ye mad and filled with pride than ashamed and bowing your head!" Isabella sighed as she realized Sheil was simply goading her, the anger passing as suddenly as it had come. Her shoulders sank back into the cushions, wearily watching as the older woman worked herself into a lather. "A girl with pride has naught to fear," Sheil went on, adamantly shaking her head. "A girl with pride—no gentleman can take advantage of her for she knows her worth!"

Isabella knew the tirade had reached the point where no response would ease Sheil's mind; the former nursemaid was intent in trying to protect her charge and would have her say. What's more, Isabella wasn't certain her thoughts would have comforted the aged companion. She suspected Sheil imagined a gentleman something like Mr. Eldritch or his ungenerous son, a simple councilman, as of the country as she or Sheil. But the Frenchman had been nothing like Mr. Eldritch or Mr. James; he was foreign, sophisticated, his garb finer than any she'd yet seen, his very gait filled with elegance and lightness.

"Yes, Sheil," Isabella responded, all docility as she picked up her mending again.

"Ye are worthy child, if only ye knew!" Sheil exclaimed before her features softened, her ire subsiding. "Ye are worthy." She shook her head. "That Mr. James can barely keep his eyes in his head—and likely cares naught for his brother one whit but for these visits on the way."

Isabella's gaze shot from her mending to that of her nurse, surprised and disbelieving. "Sheil, don't be ridiculous."

But the nursemaid simply nodded her head, her expression knowing. "He might pursue ye were he not so ambitious."

Isabella couldn't help a laugh, flinging her sewing to her lap. "So you admit I'm not his match!"

But Sheil would not relent, her voice growing irate again as she spoke, "Ye are worth ten of him, Isabella Swan! Ambition don't make none a gentleman, and certainly not Mr. James Eldritch Junior!"


	5. Terrible Infatuation

Thank you so much for reading and reviewing.

* * *

><p>…<em>conquer this terrible infatuation, which obscures danger from your sight, and right from your discernment!<em>

_Camilla, A Picture of Youth  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**five**

Isabella had tried to attend to her mending upon rising, but her mind could not focus on the task before her. Though she had brought her work basket with her to the dining room to allow Mrs. Hammet to clean the front sitting room, she had repeatedly found herself staring in confusion at the sewing in her hands, having again lost count of her stitches. Unbidden, her mind repeatedly returned to Mr. Eldritch's words, inwardly marveling at the fact that the Frenchman had not simply been passing through on his way to a much more interesting destination. Restlessness filled her limbs and she found herself flinging her mending aside, catching up her bonnet in nervous hands as she stood before the dining room windows. The sensation was strong, matched only by the instance in which she had been compelled out of bed in the middle of the night—the night before she'd met Mr. Maçon.

Isabella turned from the dining room windows, regarding the work basket on the center of the table with narrowed eyes. It overflowed with thread, notions, and the petticoat and stockings she knew she needed to mend. But it was no use.

Quickly, before she could allow doubt to cause her to hesitate, she turned from the window and crossed to the door. She ducked her head into the front sitting room but Mrs. Hammet was alone, wiping down the mantel with a rag. "Is Sheil in the kitchen?"

The woman nodded, her face flushed and distracted. Isabella murmured a word of thanks before trotting down the corridor, seeking her former nursemaid. "Sheil?" she called before she'd passed through the heavy door. "Sheil?"

"Yes, child?" The elder woman sat by the hearth, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea. She lifted her head, covered with its customary mob cap, as Isabella stepped through the door.

Isabella paused just within the threshold, unaware of how the restlessness she felt was evident in her stance. One hand extended back to the latch of the door, giving her the look of ready flight, while the other fidgeted at her side, the bonnet dancing from her fingertips. "I believe I'll go to Mousehole," she announced. Her gaze abruptly grew distant, eyes fixed on the rear door that exited to the garden behind the cottage. It was for this reason that she did not note Sheil's darkening expression, which was rapidly curling into a frown.

"Isabella—" Sheil began.

But her charge was speaking, her voice faint, as though she hadn't heard the older woman say her name. "I must go." Sheil's eyes narrowed, a mixture of concern and curiosity crossing her gaze, her lips pressing together as she thought better of the tirade she had been preparing to deliver.

When Sheil finally managed a response, her voice was soft though the concern had not faded from her countenance. "What for, child?"

It was as if the words broke the spell. Isabella shook her head, her eyes clearing as her gaze fell to the bonnet still hanging from her hand. "To the mantua maker. I would like some riband—something to adorn this dull hat."

"I see," Sheil answered slowly, her chin lifting as though to nod—though her head simply inclined at a dubious angle, her brows low over her eyes. Isabella glanced in the older woman's direction, suspicious that the former nursemaid had not spoken to protest.

But when she saw her companion remain silent, Isabella briefly smiled, the quickest motion of her lips. "Shall I fetch you anything from the shops there?"

Sheil shook her head, her brow easing into the benign expression that had graced her features when Isabella first interrupted her tea. "We needn't anything here, child." The words were mild. "Enjoy the fresh air."

Isabella nodded but hesitated, as if uncertain Sheil was truly going to let her go without any further remonstrance. Then, as if thinking better of this uncertainty, she jammed the bonnet onto her head and turned on a swift heel. "I won't be long!"

Sheil listened to the tap of Isabella's boots against the corridor floor, soon followed by the slam of the front door, but the frown did not fade from her brow for several minutes more.

The sky was white, a pall of high clouds concealing any hint of blue from view. Somehow, though, Isabella felt no concern at the lack of sun, a smile fighting to tilt her lips as she turned down the lane that would take her along the jagged coast to town. She could not ascertain what had lightened her spirits so, only that the restlessness that had been coursing through her limbs suddenly felt much lessened. It took all of her effort not to skip down the path like a giddy child, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

Given the high path's exposure to the open sea, Isabella was pleasantly surprised to find the wind was infrequent and weak, her skirts genty stirring about her legs, her bonnet secure on her head with no need of a strong hand to keep it in place. Her gaze turned to the sea, her breath growing even in time with the steady pulse of the waves, her nose filled with the scent of ocean salt and the green richness of blooming things.

She was distracted from this reverie by the vibration of approaching horse hooves, the sensation subtle but unmistakeable. It took all of her will not to turn and determine if it was him, forcing her gaze to remain focused on the horizen, her breath steady though she could feel the beat of her heart in her chest. Later, she would wonder that she didn't grow tense and nervous, her heart racing, her breathing labored. Instead, contrarily, she grew relaxed, her shoulders easing away from her ears, her gloved hands unfurling at her sides.

Only when she knew the rider was nearly upon her did she step from the path; the ground swelled slightly on either side of the well-trod lane, the grass still damp with dew, young crocuses spearing up from the earth. She heard the rider slow and turned her head, looking over her shoulder with an unsurprised gaze. This calm flickered for only a moment at seeing the same expectation in his countenance, as if he had known he would encounter her on this path, on this day.

"To the market again?" He called, his voice almost playful as he tugged at the reins, drawing his horse to a halt. An involuntary shiver traced a path down her spine though she had expected the lilt and tenor of his voice. Had she not replayed their conversation in her mind many times since their first encounter, his cultured accent echoing in her head as she drifted into fitful sleep?

What she did not expect was the charming smile which curved over his lips, his pale features transformed from merely handsome into dangerously enchanting. Isabella forced her gaze from his face, glancing over the fine cut of his navy coat and buff-colored riding trousers, his black boots gleaming with polish, before her eyes dropped to the stooped horse beneath his frame. A frown crossed her brow, responding with the first question that entered her head. "Could you not find a better horse than Mr. Moorland's old mare?"

As the words left her lips, she realized the impudence of the query, heat flaming in her cheeks as her gaze abruptly dropped to the ground; she pretended intense fascination with the grass at her feet and the hem of her walking gown grown damp with dew. Despite this false focus, her frown remained, unable to forget her confusion in her embarrassment. If he was as wealthy as Mr. Eldritch suspected, could he not have hired the finest steed?

Fortunately, Mr. Maçon simply laughed, the sound ringing out as he swung down from the saddle. "She's all that could stand me." Isabella's gaze reluctantly lifted from the soft grass and violet crocuses, lips slightly parted with surprise that he was not affronted at her question. His black eyes sparkled as he glanced back to the horse, briefly lifting the reins with a helpless gesture. "I have not your talents for enchanting beasts of burden."

Her cheeks flamed only brighter at his reference to their prior encounter, her hands again curling into nervous, embarrassed fists. She knew not where to look, no ready response at her lips. Ultimately, it was of no import that she could not gain her wits for the mare had turned her head, almost as if aware they were speaking of her, and gently nosed at Isabella's closed hand.

Mr. Maçon's laugh was uproarious and Isabella's cheeks burned more hotly, her lips tightly pursing as annoyance joined her embarrassment. What could she have thought in journeying out on this day? What could she have sought in hoping to see him again?

Before she could find an excuse to be on her way, he was dipping into a deep bow, doffing his hat as he asked, "May I please introduce myself?" Isabella's lips parted, thinking to protest his assumptions regarding her talent with animals, a ready excuse on her tongue. Misunderstanding her intention, he quickly added, "I realize there is not the proper means of introduction—" A note of uncertainty had entered his voice and she could not help her eyes widening in surprise, her anger and embarrassment replaced entirely by wonder that he should assume she would forebear to deny him anything someone so mannered requested. He clasped his hat in hands that looked as if they longed to fidget, his gaze darting from her features, to his feet, to the reins he still negligiently held.

"If you wish," Isabella finally allowed with the slightest nod.

His smile of relief inspired one of her own and Isabella inwardly cursed to feel her cheeks warming again, wondering at his affect on her person. "I am Edward Maçon—from Châteauroux as you know."

"And I am Isabella Swan." She lifted her chin, recalling Sheil's admonitions of the day before. She was not ashamed.

Mr. Maçon swept into another bow. "It is a pleasure."

Isabella curtsied before nodding towards the road, indicating her destination. "I am not going to the market today but to the mantua maker."

He regarded her with a steady, thoughtful gaze before his lips barely parted to murmur, "Que vous alliez vêtue ainsi qu'une princesse…" Isabella's eyes flared wide; though she could speak only passable French, she understood it well. And though Renée had forbade her daughter from reading some of the books packed into Charles' study at the rear of the house, Isabella had often snuck into that dusty room during the many hours when Renée was preoccupied in the garden or the kitchen. She had never failed to be fascinated by that shadowed space; by the ancient leather chair with its high tufted back; by the massive walnut desk with its calfskin blotter, stained blue black in spots from spilled ink; by the colorful rug that covered the floorboards, worn and faded with time; and by the shelves of books purchased by the Swan family over the decades.

Moliére's _Tartuffe_ was wedged on the highest shelf along with several other books and leaflets in French, one of many items Renée had brought to Cornwall from France after marrying Charles. Despite her mother's attempts to prevent the curious eyes of an impressionable child from seeing that which she should not see, Isabella had first read it when her hair was still in plaits—and several more times since given she'd understood little of it as a child.

"You think me…extravagant?" she whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. She was suddenly hot with confusion, unable to understand how her simple walking gown, white muslin trimmed at the throat and sleeves with the narrowest strip of lace, could have called that play to mind.

But Mr. Maçon was shaking his head, a flash of regret crossing his features as he spoke, "You speak French."

"A little," Isabella's confusion shifted to dismay, wondering that he should be surprised by this truth. But then, as she inwardly acknowledged that only the gentry in the area could claim to know the tongue, her irritation subsided. "My mother was French," she finally allowed, raising her head to regard him with a wary stare.

Mr. Maçon nodded sharply, his dark head briefly bowing before he gestured to the path before them. Isabella examined his features, searching for the mockery or amusement she was certain must accompany his surprise at learning she understood a foreign language. But his countenance was clear, indicating nothing more than politeness.

He only spoke again when she had preceded him down the path, his voice sincere as he apologized, "I beg your pardon, Miss Swan. It is unforgiveable—a lapse of judgement on my part, perhaps…" The words trailed into silence and Isabella found herself examining his features, longing to understand what he'd meant in making the reference.

But no explanation was forthcoming, his expression inscrutable, gaze trained on the road as he accompanied her along the Coast Path, the old mare sedately following. When he finally spoke, it was not in reference to the banned play. "From where did your mother hail?"

"Near Paimpont, in Brittany," Isabella answered, then added with a slight frown, "It is likely miles from Châteauroux."

Mr. Maçon nodded. "This is true. I have only been as far west as Tours." He glanced in her direction. "There is a magnificent cathedral there." Before she could respond, he was speaking again, as if intent on changing the topic of discussion. "And you have family there?"

Isabella's gaze fell, her own curiosity easing at evidence of his. "I believe so. But after my mother and father passed, we were unable to get any letters through."

Mr. Maçon ducked his head, the grimace twisting his lips indicating his contrition—as well as annoyance with himself. "I do beg your pardon—again," he wryly added. Then, more soberly, "I am very sorry for your loss."

Isabella tilted her head, brown eyes steady and only slightly sad as she regarded him. "It was some time ago. It will have been nine years this coming summer." As her gaze returned to the road, she added, "You are kind but there is no need to be sorry."

His pale features furrowed with a frown. "I must, at the very least, be sorry their lives were not longer," he protested.

Isabella nodded, "Certainly." She was then silent, her gaze drifting to her feet, thoughtful. She realized they were walking quite slowly, the mare tugging at blades of grass behind them, but she could not bring herself to examine why. When she finally spoke, she strived to convey lightness in her tone, intent on belying any bitterness that might be thought to underlie her words. "But are our years not always limited?"

Mr. Maçon's expression abruptly shifted from contrition to unabashed surprise and curiosity, lips slightly parted as he stared at her with disbelief. Isabella's gaze fell at his reaction, uncertain whether she'd offended him with her philosophical acceptance of her parents' death. She added, the words determined, "I can also be gladdened they lived at all, and that they had one another while they were alive."

He remained silent and she went on, her mind suddenly filled with the memory of that summer day, of Sheil's reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks. "I told my nursemaid—many weeks later, of course," she paused. "They could not be happy apart. 'Tis much better they be together in death." She turned her gaze back to the road, her voice matter-of-fact. "Father was often gone on the Continent and Maman could not abide his long absences."

"He was in the military," Mr. Maçon presumed.

She nodded, "With the 32nd Regiment." She did not add that given all of the foreign conflicts, the spans of time in which he'd been home were rare; she suspected her father had loved the excitement and purpose of being commissioned in the army, however much it had taken him away from his wife and daughter.

"And his family?" Mr. Maçon enquired.

Isabella shook her head. "My grandfather died before I was born, and my grandmother passed while I was still an infant."

"And your father was the only child," he concluded.

"Yes. Mr. Eldritch—he's one of the village councilman in Mousehole—heard tell of a brother to my grandfather living in the north. But there were no responses to his letters." Sensing his next question, she added, "And with all of the upheaval on the Continent, it's unlikely any of his letters reached their destination in France. I've no notion of whether my mother's relations are still living, and they likely haven't the means of reaching me if they do."

"Very true," Mr. Maçon nodded, black eyes thoughtful. "You seem quite reconciled to your circumstances."

A frown darted across Isabella's brow, not quite certain as to his meaning—or how to respond. "I cannot imagine my life otherwise." His expression was musing, dark brows drawn slightly together beneath the brim of his hat, and she was not certain whether she detected dubiousness there. Thinking of Sheil's words again, she added, "I have all I need and want for nothing."

"Even frills from the mantua maker?" he teased, his sudden smile so bright that she couldn't think to be defensive or angry in response.

"Perhaps the occasional frill," she allowed, ducking her head to hide her smile, knowing the brim of her bonnet would conceal her features.

His laugh was soft in response and she felt her cheeks warm; but she sensed he was not laughing at her, the sound simply amused rather than cruel, his black eyes sparkling as her gaze darted up to meet his own. "It appears we are nearing our destination," he noted, bringing her attention to the fact that they were approaching the outskirts of the village. They had moved so slowly that she had not grown breathless while climbing the hill that rose before the town, distracted from noticing her surroundings by his presence yet again.

She hesitated as they reached the crest of the hill, hands nervously clasped before her as she faced him, words of farewell ready on her lips. But she found she couldn't speak, gaze darting away from his steady stare, lips parted but silent. Isabella didn't know whether to be pleased or displeased that he was not making his own excuses and continuing on his way; and of course the docile mare did not tug at the reins or stamp her hooves with impatience, simply lowering her head to a copse of grass and pulling a few blades free.

The village unfolded below in the cradle of the harbor, fishing boats bobbing in the distance, a breeze stirring loose tendrils of hair not caught beneath her bonnet.

Isabella knew she should behave as she had at their first encounter, but she could not bring herself to part from his company. "So it is." She forced her gaze back to his, tilting her head. "Where are you destined for today?"

He bowed his head, acknowledging her acceptance of his continued company. "Simply returning to the coaching inn," he answered as they resumed their slow stroll down the path towards the village below. "I've been abroad on my search and have tired Mr. Moorland's mare—though I suspect we've given her a bit of a rest this last mile."

"Ah, yes," Isabella nodded. Cottages sprang up on either side of the lane, soon blocking their view of the blue gray sea, while the ground beneath their feet transitioned from dirt and gravel to uneven cobblestones. "I'm sure he's grateful for the income—Mr. Moorland is ever sentimental about his horses." The road forked into two before them and Isabella bit her lip as she remembered darting down Talskiddy Lane rather than risk remaining in Mr. Maçon's company when they'd met before. Like that day, there were few people passing on the narrow streets, barely wide enough for a carriage. Most of the fishermen would be out on the bay, and the farmers would be in their fields. A few elderly men loitered before the door of the King and Hare, the local public house, their mouths pursed around pipes, their conversation falling silent as Isabella and Mr. Maçon passed. She ignored their stares.

"Which I'm sure you appreciate," Mr. Maçon's tone was teasing again, but she felt no embarrassment this time at his words. Her lips merely twisted into a wry smile, refusing to rise to his baiting. While she still wondered how he had witnessed her with Raginnis' bull when she had been so certain she was alone, at least he didn't appear to think less of her for the childish errand.

A pack of children raced by, laughing and breathless, their boots tapping against the cobblestones; it was difficult to tell who was being chased, all of their faces flushed and smiling.

"Here is the haberdasher, which means we are nearly to the mantua maker," Isabella noted, lifting her head to the signs swinging above, jutting at right angles from the shops marching along the lane. Though the haberdasher and mantua maker had separate exterior doors, they were joined inside given many of their supplies were the same, as were their patrons.

"Then I will continue on my way to the coaching inn." Mr. Maçon drew to a stop before the shop entrance, his gloved hand tightening around the reins of his hired horse. "Miss Swan, it was a pleasure to meet you," he bowed, doffing his hat with his free hand.

She curtsied as he rose to his full height, unable to bite back the smile forming upon her lips. "Mr. Maçon," she acknowledged with a nod.

"Til we meet again," he smiled.

Though she had resisted blushing for the last few minutes of their journey, she could not help the warmth that flooded her cheeks at these words.


	6. Forsee Storms

_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>As Birds and Beasts, whose Bodies are much used to the Change of the frie and open Air forsee Storms; so those invisible People are more sagacious to understand by the Books of Nature things to come, than we, who are pestered with the grosser Dregs of all elementary Mixtures, and have our purer Spirits choaked by them.<em>

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies  
><em>_Robert Kirk_

**six**

The shop was small, but the gray light of day reached back to the farthest corners given the large glass windows that faced the narrow lane; candles were used sparingly given the bolts of fabric, lace, velvet and other finery carried within, the flames struck only when the day had grown dark—and then immediately covered by a glass shade. Nonetheless, Isabella hesitated upon the threshold, allowing her pupils to adjust to confines that were still shadowy compared to the brightness outside. This was likely why she was observed by Miss Rosalie Hale long before she'd distinguished any of the silhouetted figures in the shop interior.

"Come, Nan," the voice rang out, commanding and brusque. "I have suddenly lost my taste for shopping." It was only as the tall figure approached, blond hair peeking from beneath a bonnet bedecked with feathers, that Isabella realized who was speaking. She quickly stepped aside, the blood draining from her face, forcing her gaze from the scars pitting Miss Hale's cheeks and brow and throat, inadequately covered by powder. For a moment, Isabella knew not where to look, near breathless with panic, before her brown eyes cast to the ground.

There was a loud clang due to the force with which Miss Hale opened the door, the bell above it ringing out sharply, before it slammed shut behind the stately figure and her scurrying companion. Isabella's gaze remained on the floorboards of the shop, unable to lift her head, her pulse throbbing in her throat.

Her mind was far from the little shop filled with fabric and trimmings, her gaze fixed inward, on conversations and memories she'd done her best to forget, an unpleasant encounter that she still could not quite make sense of.

She had never been fond of dancing, unable to forget how graceful and light Renée had been when attempting to instruct her daughter in the basic steps. Her mother had made it seem so effortless, her skirts flowing about her legs, her head elegantly tilted, her pale arms gracefully extended. Isabella couldn't help feeling like a lumbering, awkward creature next to her.

But she could only resist Sheil's supplications, reasoning, and, finally, pointed, surly lectures for so long. Since she had come of age, Isabella had usually acquiesced once or twice a year to her former nursemaid's requests to attend one of the assembly balls in Penzance. Though she was certain that Sheil was right in her estimation that Isabella's dancing would only improve were she to attend more often, she simply couldn't subject herself to the awkward conversations, far more awkward minuets and reels, and inadequate suppers that encompassed being present at the assembly balls.

Isabella had managed to resist for much of the spring but by May knew she would have to succumb to Sheil's increasingly irate demands. Mrs. Berty, the wife of a solicitor in Heamoor who had known Sheil for many years, had secured tickets for them. They had hired a carriage and Isabella had donned the same dress and elbow-length gloves she'd worn the prior year. To her relief there were many new faces, young girls who had only recently put up their hair and a few gentlemen newly arrived to the area, allaying her concern about wearing an ensemble people might recognize.

Of course, given she spent the majority of her time standing near a far wall listening to Sheil and Mrs. Berty gossip, it wasn't as if she would have attracted much notice in the first instance. Her gaze had drifted around the room, looking over the shoulders of other observers, everyone intent in watching the dancers at the center of the hall. She glimpsed the flash of embroidered skirts, arms graced by long, drooping gloves, and the occasional bobbing feather or sparkling diadem threaded through upswept tresses. Gentlemen bowed and hopped in and out of view, smiling down at their partners, while the distant sound of violins and a French horn made its way to her ears.

"Let's get near the fire, child," Sheil's voice had broken into her passive observance of her surroundings; Isabella had started, turning her head to see that Sheil was indeed holding her wool shawl close, visibly chilled in the lofty hall. Her gray hair was covered by her most elaborate cap, two rows of ruffles framing her plump features, her blue eyes alight with the excitement of attending a Penzance assembly ball.

"Of course, Sheil," Isabella had smiled down at her companion and threaded her gloved arm through Sheil's. They wove through the crowd, keeping close to the wall until a cluster of gentlemen sampling a new mixture of snuff had forced them to veer more closely to the dancers. The reel broke apart just as they did so, the ladies and gentlemen bowing and curtsying breathlessly as they took leave of one another; a tall young lady, wheat blond hair piled atop her head, turned directly out of her curtsy and nearly collided with Isabella and Sheil.

"I beg your pardon!" Isabella gasped as she leapt back, unwittingly yanking at Sheil's arm as the older woman could not react nearly as quickly.

The young lady started and straightened, her hands instinctively grasping at her skirts, as if ensuring they didn't get stepped on and torn in the near-collision. Isabella was momentarily distracted by the richness of the fabric, a gossamer muslin shot through with gold embroidery; a sash in the same gold neatly circled the high waist of the gown, the gathered sleeves edged in gold lace. Further, a gold necklace adorned her neck, matching bobs dancing from her ears. Perhaps it was this richness that led Isabella to notice the scars that marred her oval face only as the lady's features were curling into a sneer, her blue eyes cold as she took a deliberate step back.

Without speaking, the tall blonde then swept past, her shoulder roughly brushing Isabella's own; had Isabella not jerked to the left, nearly treading on the hem of Sheil's gown, she would have been knocked over. Instinctively, Isabella turned to watch the young lady stalk through the crowd, eyes wide with confusion, lips parted with disbelief. It was only as she felt Sheil's hand tugging on her arm that the whispers of the people crowding the hall reached her ears, her cheeks abruptly flaming as she realized she had been the unwitting recipient of a cut direct.

Isabella had numbly followed as Sheil gently tugged her through the hall to the smaller card room, intent in reaching the fire that had been their object in the first place. Only when the older woman had pushed a glass of ratafia into her hands did Isabella see that her former nursemaid was livid with outrage, blue eyes blazing, lips trembling with anger. Isabella did not realize her own hands were shaking until she lifted the sweet ratafia to her lips.

"The audacity—!" The words were enraged but spoken in a whisper, Sheil's gloved hands clenched into fists at her sides, her gaze protectively fixed on Isabella's pale countenance.

"Sheil?" Mrs. Berty was behind them, her expression a mask of confusion and shock. "What has happened? Did I just hear that—"

"Yes, ye did," Sheil responded. "But I don't aim to be the subject of any further gossip," her gaze was pointed as she glanced around the card room. Though the musicians had struck up a minuet, the pleasant notes drifting through the open doors, Isabella could see many of the card players were covertly watching them, their attention only superficially on their games of whist or piquet.

Mrs. Berty's voice had fallen to an urgent whisper, "That girl should be glad she's alive!"

"Don't I know it!" Sheil had whispered back. "If it weren't for Mrs. Renée, Rosalie Hale wouldn't be breathing air as we speak!" Turning to Isabella, she continued, "Pay no mind to misses that don't have manners to speak of."

But Isabella could not forget the open snub she had so unexpectedly received, nor the look of unabashed anger in the eyes of the scarred lady. Sheil, however, would speak no more of the matter, refusing to allow their whispers to draw any further attention to the affair. Both she and Mrs. Berty were able to keep up a façade of light conversation through the conclusion of the ball; Sheil refused to depart any earlier, stubbornly stating, "I won't support the notion that I'm running away with my tail betwixt my legs."

Only in the hired carriage on their return journey home had she divulged the only possible reason Rosalie Hale could have behaved in so rude a manner. The door had clipped shut behind them, the carriage silent but for the sound of the coachman clambering into his seat. This was soon followed by the click of his tongue against his teeth as he bid the horses to begin the long trot home. Isabella was set to pepper her former nursemaid with questions when Sheil spoke unprompted. "Ye were no more than eight or nine, still just a girl. I know ye were abed when Captain Hale knocked on the door, looking for your mother." Isabella discerned the sound of a deep breath, but she could not make out Sheil's expression in the dark shadows of the carriage. "He was new to the area then, had just purchased Alverton Manor from the Veale family—and he didn't trust the doctor with his little girl. 'A country sawbones,' as he called him." Her gloved hand reached through the shadows, covering Isabella's own where it rested on her knee. "Your mother, however, was highly recommended for her nursing."

Isabella's heart clenched in her chest, finally coming to understand Sheil's meaning. As if sensing this realization, Sheil leaned forward, her features thrown into relief by the moon glowing through the carriage windows. Her gaze was steady, her voice insistent, "'Twas not your mother that scarred that poor girl, Isabella. 'Twas the smallpox. Make no mistake of that."

Isabella forced her gaze to focus on the dusty floorboards of the mantua makers, blindly picking out strands of thread that had yet to be swept up. Though she knew she shouldn't look, she couldn't resist glancing over her shoulder. She was somehow unsurprised to find Edward Maçon had not yet departed—and given Rosalie Hale's swift exit, he was now bowing low in greeting, his gaze unflinching as it rested on her powdered features.

Isabella swiftly turned away from this tableau, her chin low, hoping her bonnet would conceal the dart of pain contorting her features. For she felt it almost physically, the blow of realizing that Miss Hale was one of the few who could claim to be his social equal.

"Miss?" Mr. Snow, the shopkeeper, was clearly confused as to why she hadn't yet stepped far beyond the threshold.

"Oh, yes!" Isabella nearly shouted, her head jerking up as she realized she must at least pretend an interest in her surroundings. She moved forward towards the wide counter behind which the shopkeeper stood, forcing a note of pleasantry into her voice as she asked to see any striped riband he might have. She managed to feign fascination with the wares he took down from the shelves, but finally begged his pardon as none of it was quite what she had in mind.

When she departed the shop, she was certain enough time had lapsed that Rosalie Hale must be long gone. As the daughter of Captain Hale, Justice of the Peace and owner of Alverton Manor, she had likely traveled by barouche or gig, her slippers unmarred by the mud and dust of the country roads. Nonetheless, Isabella glanced in both directions as she stepped from the shop before quickly hurrying in the direction of home.

She felt a strange, hot emotion, her fists curled so tightly at her sides that were she not wearing gloves, she was certain her nails would have left marks upon her palms. Her teeth were clenched behind tight lips, her face warm with something greater than frustration, greater than anger or embarrassment—a wildness that was utterly abnormal to her typically easy, contented nature.

Her pace was furious, her chest heaving with the force of her breath as she swiftly climbed the hill that led from the village of Mousehole. But why should she be so angry? It was through no fault of her own that Rosalie Hale chose to hold some sort of grudge for her disfigurement against the Swan family. Isabella knew Sheil and Mrs. Berty were right—that given Rosalie's scarring, her smallpox must have been inordinately severe. Isabella had no doubt it was through the ministrations of her mother that Rosalie Hale was alive at all.

And yet she still felt hot and agitated, her gaze fixed on her feet for fear that should anyone see her expression, she would be stopped and forced to fabricate some lie to explain the passion she knew to be written in her features. It was only the piercing screech of some animal that drew her gaze and attention, her head jerking up at the sound.

Isabella sucked in a breath to see the pack of children that had raced by her and Mr. Maçon earlier, now crowded around a boney cat; a few of the older boys held sticks, jeering and laughing as they poked at the cornered animal. Its arched back was nearly flush with the stone wall of the building behind it, yellow eyes narrowed yet full of fear.

"Go on!" Isabella cried, instinctively crossing the road to the circle of crouching, laughing children. A few turned their heads, startled. "Go on!" she cried, her fury only compounded by their casual violence against a helpless animal.

Seeing her wrathful mood, the children quickly scattered, the older boys dropping their sticks as they darted down the narrow street, disappearing around the nearest corner. The cat was equally swift as it raced in the opposite direction, its tail like a lightning bolt.

Isabella exhaled, shoulders sagging, a modicum of her anger dissipating. Quickly, she glanced around before continuing on her way, grateful Mr. Maçon had not come upon her once again, likely ready with a pithy observation regarding her affinity for animals. Isabella shook her head at the thought and then glanced to the sky as she reached the edge of town; for while she knew she still had some distance to go, she was suddenly certain a storm was coming. Her eyes narrowed dubiously to see the sky had cleared, the clouds wisping apart to reveal glimpses of blue. She shook her head again and quickened her pace, knowing without a doubt she would be caught in the rain otherwise.

She faltered as the recollection of her mother doing the exact same thing suddenly rose to the surface of her churning thoughts. She had never thought anything amiss in Renée's habit of telling her when she should not go far when venturing beyond the limits of the Swan property, or bidding Sheil to hold off on journeying into town, or advising Mr. and Mrs. Hammet to wait another week to plant their crops as the coming storms would likely wash the seeds away.

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut, her heart thumping against her ribs—due to the pace of her swiftly moving legs, or due to her unsettling thoughts…she wasn't certain. But the galloping hooves of an approaching rider startled her eyes wide, breath caught in her throat, fearing another chance encounter with Mr. Maçon. For she knew she could not form even the semblance of a polite greeting, or maintain some normalcy in conversation—not now, not with these thoughts swirling within.

Fortunately, it was only Mr. Raginnis on his enormous bay, who barely slowed as Isabella stepped from the path, briefly raising his hat from his bald head as he galloped by. Isabella found herself exhaling with relief, thankful it had not been Mr. Maçon coming upon her in his accidental way—which she somehow knew in her heart could not entirely be an accident of fate…however wild and inexplicable such a certainty must be.

_Accident._

The word lodged in her mind as the image of Rosalie Hale filled her mind, the powder caking her skin like a mask that still failed to fully conceal the scars that marred her cheeks and brow and throat. The blonde would have been beautiful but for the deep pits in her skin, her eyes wide and brightly blue, her lips shapely and pink, her features even and symmetrical.

A drop of rain dampened Isabella's sleeve but she did not heed this precursor of the coming storm. Her gaze was distant, lost in the memory of the night when she had unwittingly reminded Rosalie of the disfigurement that had irrevocably destroyed her beauty. Isabella could nearly feel Sheil's hand on her own in the darkness of the carriage that had carried them home last spring, the older woman's voice insistent. _'Twas not your mother that scarred that poor girl, Isabella. 'Twas the smallpox. Make no mistake of that._

She had never thought anything amiss in her mother being so frequently fetched by neighboring farmers and gentry, had never questioned her mother's skill with poultices and herbs. She wasn't certain what she had thought—that all women were skilled in such things? That perhaps her mother's uncanny ability to nurse the sickest and weakest back to health could be attributed, like her graceful dancing and fey humor, to her French background?

_Fate._

But Isabella was now old enough to know better, especially given how much France and its people were in the leaflets and newspapers that made their way to Mousehole from Penzance and farther—Exeter, Plymouth, London. She now knew that the French were known for their food, their fashion, and now, the dangerous extravagance of their aristocracy and the wild violence of the common people. But the French were not known for predicting when the sky would darken and rain would begin to fall, or for bringing flowers to bloom overnight, or for knowing where lost items could be found.

_Accident of fate._

Isabella shook her head, pushing away these thoughts. Were the local fishermen not known for gazing to the sky and making pronouncements about the coming day's weather? Perhaps Renée had simply been more skilled than most…

The rain had begun to fall in earnest and Isabella surfaced from her thoughts to see that she would soon be striding through puddles if she did not hurry. Gathering up her skirts, she increased her pace, her breath coming in quick pants as she felt the damp seeping through the straw of her bonnet, her sleeves clinging to her arms, her skirts heavy about her legs.

As she turned from the Coast Path to the narrow lane that would take her to Swan Cottage, she gasped to see the surface of the puddles splashing and bursting with the impact of something much larger than rain drops. Her gaze darted over the muddy road, her eyes narrowing with disbelief as she saw the gray white pellets of hail rapidly gathering on the ground. She hurried through the gate of Swan Cottage and hesitated as she reached the front steps. Realizing it made little sense to go inside for a cloak when she was already soaked, she darted over to the shutters that were latched back from the windows on the lower floor.

But her fingers were cold and she fumbled at the latch, struggling to free the shutter. Her gaze darted between her clumsy hands and the window as hail tapped a staccato rhythm against the cottage walls, the dining room shadowed and empty before her frantic eyes. Exhaling loudly in frustration, she grasped the edge of the shutter with one hand and yanked on the latch with the other, blinking back the rain that wet her face and lashes. In her haste and distraction, she didn't realize the latch had finally come loose, gasping as the shutter violently swung away from the cottage wall in her cold, numb hand. She jumped back but did not react quickly enough, a hiss of air escaping her lips as the shutter slammed against the sill—with her hand caught beneath the heavy planks.

Isabella swallowed her shriek, white spots suddenly clouding her vision as she jerked her hand free and instinctively swung it to her chest. She grasped it with her opposite hand, as if the pressure and will of her grip could alleviate the pain. _Sheil_. She thought her companion's name but couldn't bring herself to shout it aloud, certain she wouldn't be able to stop herself from childishly whimpering if she allowed her lips to part.

Before she could turn and rush inside, the very person of whom she had been thinking was on the front steps, her voice a worried call, "Isa! Isa, are ye alright? I had such a fright, thinking of ye out in this weather!" Isabella did not know how white her face appeared beneath the brim of her bonnet, brown eyes enormous and pained as she hurried to Sheil's side, still clutching her hand. The former's nursemaid's expression transformed from worry to shock. "Ack, what happened, child?!"

"The shutters—" Isabella managed to speak, the words a low moan.

"Come in, come in—get out of this rain!" Sheil bid, gently taking Isabella's wrist and pulling her into the house. "If only Mr. Connor were here to deal with the shutters—ye should have left them to him— always trying to help when I tell ye we can manage well enough without ye lifting a hand…" Sheil's litany of admonitions continued as they moved down the corridor to the kitchen, where the nursemaid pulled Isabella near the light of the fire and eased the wet glove from her hand.

"Oh, dear," Sheil whispered as Isabella sucked in a breath. Her hand throbbed all the worse for suddenly being able to see the injury. A shallow gash from the base of her thumb to her wrist marked where her hand had been pinched between the shutter and sill; the stark line was needled with red that grew brighter beneath her gaze, oozing from broken skin. Worse, her entire palm was swollen and rapidly turning purple. "Let me get a clean cloth and some water in the kettle." Sheil's voice was firm, brooking no objections. "Do not move."

Isabella sagged down onto the stool where Sheil usually spent her days, gaze blank as she stared down at her injured hand. Before the storm had turned so furious, before she had so clumsily injured herself, she had thought to ask Sheil about her mother, to question exactly what the former nursemaid knew of Renée's skills and knowledge. But those suspicions were long forgotten as she sat by the hearth, shivering in her wet gown, gently cradling her injured hand in her lap.


	7. Mystery

_Thank you for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>You accuse me of mystery, and charge me with reserve: I cannot doubt but I must have merited the accusation; yet, to clear myself—you know not how painful will be the task.<em>

_Evelina, or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**seven**

As was her custom, Sheil had accompanied the Hammets to Paul Church for the Sunday morning service. Garbed in her best gown, a purple shawl neatly folded over her shoulders, she perched next to Mrs. Hammet on the high wagon seat, her posture erect, the white edge of her mobcap peeking from beneath the brim of her simple bonnet. Behind her, Mr. Connor and the younger Hammet children all sat with slick hair and fidgeting hands, their solemnity a thin veneer over their normal energy and exuberance.

From the upper window, Isabella peered between the curtains, careful to keep her figure fully concealed by the fall of damask fabric that covered the bedchamber panes. She smiled to see little Meg reach over to tweak her older brother's ear, restraining her laughter as Mr. Connor jumped, then glared down at his sister and whispered a reprimand Isabella could not hear. They both rocked back as the wagon lurched forward, neither having noticed their father clicking to the large draft horses that would carry them through Mousehole to the parish church.

Isabella saw Sheil's gloved hands tighten over her reticule and her lips curved into a wry grimace. She knew the former nursemaid was nervous of large horses…and mayhap she was more anxious than usual as she likely knew Isabella would no longer acquiesce to remaining abed.

Isabella had first been too stunned by the events of the day to protest Sheil's insistence that she remain in her bedchamber while she healed. "I don't trust ye not to use that hand should ye be up and about. And there ain't no guarantee ye won't get a fever yet." Isabella had nodded meekly from amongst the plumped pillows of her bed, unable to find the words to argue. But as the days passed and the swelling lessened, indicating she hadn't broken a bone, and no fevered blush stained her cheeks, it became impossible to be content with the same four walls. However many books Sheil fetched from the study belowstairs, Isabella felt no satisfaction in idleness and was soon insisting on at least taking her meals in the dining room rather than in her bed.

She had induced Sheil to promise that if she was still without fever and swelling by Sunday, a full four days following the mishap, she could return to her usual activities. As Isabella watched her former nursemaid accompany the Hammets to church, she could not entirely doubt that some of Sheil's anxiety was to do with her charge and not simply her fear of horses.

But guilt could not keep Isabella to her room. She rose soon after the clop of horse hooves faded from her ears, turning from the bedroom windows with an eager expression. Despite the bandage that still swaddled her hand, she quickly spilled water into the porcelain basin on the washstand from the white enamel pitcher Sheil had filled the prior evening. She splashed her face with her uninjured hand while carefully unthreading her plait with fingers still slightly swollen and hampered by the wrap of bandage. Loosening the ties at the neck of her nightdress, she quickly washed before moving to the clothes-press; one of the doors was ajar revealing the gowns hanging within, a mix of pale colors and simple embellishment.

She quickly donned a shift and stockings, stays that were only loosely unlaced from the prior evening, a petticoat in fine lawn, a morning gown of white cambric with a faint stripe in darker white, and a gauzy fichu which she tucked into the square neckline of the gown. Turning to the vanity, she sighed to see the wild tangle of her hair. Without Sheil's help, she was going to have to make do with a much less neat style than the tight knot she typically wore pinned at her nape. As she found her wry gaze reflected in the glass, she finally lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug; for she was unlikely to encounter anyone on this solemn day.

Renée, being Catholic, had never approved of her daughter attending Anglican services. Charles, who did not feel strongly about the matter, had allowed his wife her preference, especially as it gave him cause to avoid the railing sermons Mr. Jenks delivered. After they had died, Isabella had assumed she would begin attending the local parish church with Sheil and the Hammets, but Sheil would not hear of it—however much she might have disapproved of Renée's papist beliefs. "Your mother would roll in her grave, child," Sheil's voice had been adamant. "I'll not have that on my head."

Isabella's gaze was thoughtful as she gathered her hair in one hand and looped it into a loose knot; holding the bun in place, she gathered the pins she'd discarded the night before from the vanity, carefully thrusting them into the chestnut tresses. Gingerly, she released the bun, and smiled to see it remain in place. Then, without a second glance to the looking glass, she hurried from the room.

Though she spent every Sunday alone in the cottage, she could not help the feeling of strangeness that the quiet, shadowed rooms engendered. The front sitting room was much too quiet, no fire crackling in the hearth, no faint noise of cooking or cleaning sounding down the corridor from the kitchen. The trop of horse hooves, protesting herds of sheep, or the creak of carriage wheels could not be heard through the windows for nearly everyone would be at services at this hour. The wind did not even stir against the rooftop, sending the leafy boughs of the surrounding trees into a whispering dance.

She was almost tempted to play the pianoforte she had neglected for years, but, glancing down at her injured hand, she knew the inclination had come at exactly the wrong time. Ducking down the corridor, she darted into the kitchen, retrieving a bun from the basket on the high table at the center of the room. She then hurried to the garden, anxious to leave the too-quiet confines of the house.

Here, she lingered among the flowers that were now beginning to open more fully with the advent of the season, the soft inner petals of roses and daffodils unfurling to the sky, the sweet scent of honeysuckle evident on the warm spring air. Isabella's chin tilted with a thought, and she promptly disappeared into the house. Just as quickly, she returned to the garden with a wool throw in faded plaid and a book in her arms, the bun now lodged between her teeth. Soon, she was sitting among the blooms, nibbling at her pastry, lost in the finger worn pages.

Isabella only lifted her head when she heard the slam of a door, startled from Defoe's words regarding a tour of the isle of Britain. The cry of bright voices wishing Sheil farewell drifted from the front of the cottage, followed by the rumble of wheels and the lower tones of burbling conversation. Isabella straightened from her slouched posture, tucking her finger in the slim volume as she raised her head in expectation of Sheil's appearance.

The former nursemaid soon came into view in the darkened doorway of the kitchen, her expression bright, her shawl and reticule already discarded somewhere within the cottage. "Ah, dear girl, here ye are!"

Isabella smiled. "Was the service to your liking?"

Sheil's bright eyes briefly faded, her lips twisting in a grimace. "Nay, ye know Mr. Jenks nearly froths at the mouth with his sermons—I always did prefer Mr. Cameron. His sermons were nothing but kindness."

Isabella nodded, having heard much of this before. During one of his calls, Mr. Eldritch had shared that he'd once tried to convince Mr. Jenks to lighten the tone of his sermons, but, as Isabella learned each Sunday after Sheil returned from Paul Church, his arguments had not had their intended effect.

"'Tis unfair you are not allowed to select the curate," Isabella teased.

"Aye," Sheil nodded her head as she turned back to the kitchen. "For I certainly wouldn't pick none such as Mr. Jenks. I've always thought," she called from the darkness of the room, the sound of flint striking tinder clicking just beneath her words, "those that preach so mightily against every temptation and sin is thems that are sorely tempted themselves."

Isabella shook her head but remained silent; while she was certain that if Mr. Jenks had committed any transgression in such a small community, it would have immediately come to light, she saw no use in arguing the point with Sheil. "I'm to heat yesterday's stew," Sheil called from the depths of the kitchen. "Do ye be ravenous?" She re-appeared in the doorway, squinting in the bright light of day, a wooden ladle in her hand.

Isabella shook her head again, a faint smile on her lips. "I had a bun shortly after I dressed."

"Aye, but that was hours ago," Sheil grumbled as she turned back to the kitchen.

Isabella sighed, seeing that Sheil was likely to compensate for her inability to keep her charge in bed by fussing over Isabella for the remainder of the day. She tugged the throw from the ground as she rose to her feet, reluctantly trailing toward the kitchen—then hesitating. She glanced over her shoulder to the sky above, contemplating the sun steadily breaking through the clouds. "Sheil," she called, peering through the door into the darkness of the kitchen, "there are likely flowers in the Hammet's fallow field."

"Aye, child," Sheil called back. "Take a basket if ye aim to gather some."

Isabella smiled. "That is precisely what I had in mind." She stepped into the room, the peppery smell of stew evident in the air.

"But do take your bonnet, Isabella," Sheil called over her shoulder as she gently stirred the ladle. Though the words were chiding, her tone was full of affection.

"Yes, Sheil," Isabella replied with smiling obedience. Catching up the throw close to her chest, she quickly hurried abovestairs, fetched her bonnet, and returned to the kitchen for one of the baskets hanging near the rear door. "I'll be back before long," she called as she sailed through the door.

"And supper will be waiting for ye," Sheil called back.

Isabella couldn't help her sigh at Sheil's insistence, but was soon smiling as she swung through the garden gate, unable to resist the allure of the fine day. While the sun didn't shine brightly, there was a warm glow to the sky, the air noticeably cooler beneath the boughs of the trees that dotted the open land beyond Swan Cottage. Though a narrow track carved through the high grass, she did not follow its path, preferring to trod the clover and wildflowers that carpeted the ground rather than rucking up dust on the road.

The trees soon thinned to nothing as she reached the fields the Hammets kept plowed with vegetables and hay for their livestock. While recent wisdom dictated plowing every field and rotating crops to prevent exhausting the soil, the Hammets were too wed to tradition to risk diverging from hundreds of years of practice. What was more, given Mr. Hammet and Mr. Connor were the only hands available to plough, harrow, and harvest, crop rotation was simply beyond their resources. As such, one field was still left fallow every spring, the livestock given free reign each evening to graze over the grass and clover there.

The field was empty now, the cows and pigs likely in their pens while the Hammets prepared their Sunday supper. Isabella clambered over the low stone wall that marked the perimeter of the property, cautious as she shifted the basket and throw to her bandaged hand. She lifted her head as she gained the ground on the opposite side, a deep breath of contentment filling her lungs before pushing past her lips.

Violet, pale yellow, and indigo blue blossomed against a backdrop of rich green. Though spring had only begun to warm the ground a few weeks prior, the wildflowers, clover, and tall grass rioted forth, nearly as high as Isabella's knees in places where the cows had failed to nibble it back. The air was scented with the faint richness of things green and growing, the call of birdsong filling her ears. She drifted through the tall grass, caught up in the beauty of this place, her home. Her fingers rose almost without conscious thought, untangling the ties of her bonnet and pulling the hat from her hair. Her lips curved into a smile as the sun kissed her cheeks, closing her eyes as she tilted her face to the light.

She soon found a patch of ground on which to spread her throw, certain Sheil's good mood would allow for lingering in the fallow field; after all, she was not far from home, the sky showed no sign of turning stormy, and the day was still young. Secure in the knowledge that she would get no chastisement upon returning to the cottage, Isabella soon lost herself in her book.

So absorbed was she by Defoe's words, imagining herself far from this place, exploring the lawns of the castle of Ludlow in north Wales, that she was genuinely startled when someone called her name. "Miss Swan?"

Isabella gasped, the voice all too familiar, eyes wide as they flew from the pages of her book to find Mr. Maçon leading his docile mare across the Hammet's fallow field. "Mr. Maçon," she cried, shock evident in her voice; the book slipped from her hands as she fumbled for her bonnet, and then, discarding the pretense of giving the false impression she cared at all about shading her complexion, clumsily clambered to her feet. She could see he was gesturing for her to remain where she was but she was too flustered to obey, cheeks pink with embarrassment and confusion. Though she was certain her skirts had fully covered her legs as she sat on the throw, she couldn't recall if she'd straightened her hem after scratching her ankle earlier. And she knew her hair to be in utter disarray, tendrils curling at her temples and cheeks, only loosely pinned into place that morning. She had thought to encounter no one on this day but for Sheil, and couldn't begin to think how or why he should have come upon this place.

"Please, you need not rise," he begged, the words low and smooth and impossibly cultured.

"Oh, no," Isabella protested in return—then struggled to think of a reason she should not have remained on the rumpled throw. Her gaze darted across the verdant field, her thoughts in complete chaos, before she turned her gaze to Mr. Maçon's dark eyes, a response on her lips. "I was to gather flowers," she struggled to laugh but the sound was strangled, her agitation still evident. "You have reminded me of my task."

"You were reading," he said, his tone only slightly indicating the statement was a question.

"I was," she answered, glancing down to the book splayed upon the plaid throw. "And was far too lost in the crags of Wales to discern your approach." She glanced past his shoulder, noting the bowed mare behind him—before her eyes narrowed, realizing there was only one direction from which he must have come. She did not realize she shook her head ever so slightly, so adamant was her silent denial, telling herself her assumption was not at all possible.

"But to where…" The words formed before she could restrain her curiosity, but she could not bring herself to finish the question, to voice such presumption. Her gaze abruptly fell to her feet, chastising herself for even considering the idea.

"Your companion directed me here," Mr. Maçon explained easily, sensing the intent behind her words, his nonchalance in stark contrast to her increased agitation. For Isabella suddenly found she could not breathe, could not lift her eyes, could not stop the shaking of her hands. "I called at Swan Cottage but," she could hear the smile in his voice. "You were not there."

He had paid her a call. This was no accidental meeting on public roads, the briefest of encounters whilst traveling in the same direction. No, this was a deliberate gesture, seeking out her company. She could not begin to contemplate the meaning of it, could not allow herself to speculate as to his intentions. For how crushing a blow would it be if she was mistaken?

"No," she finally answered, her voice small, the single word a near whisper. "The day—" She paused, forcing herself to breathe, to lift her head and cease being filled with such nerves. "The day is too fine to remain indoors," she finished, the words strong and clear.

It took all of her willpower not to falter beneath Mr. Maçon's frank, admiring gaze, his lips curving with the slightest half-smile as he regarded her steadily. She thought again how black were his eyes. In that moment, had she wanted to look away, it would not have been possible.

"Your companion said as much," he replied. His gaze fell first, glancing towards the reins in his hands before rising to the field around them. When he spoke again, his tone was more somber, his hands briefly tightening into fists, the leather of his gloves straining at the knuckles. "You are so frequently alone."

Isabella's lips parted with surprise, wondering that he should care to chide her. "Cornwall is no land of vice and ignominy," she protested, her soft laugh one of surprise rather than amusement. "I am perfectly safe."

Mr. Maçon simply shook his head, the dark locks of his hair shining in the sun light. Isabella found herself wondering that he should be without a hat again but given how bold her questions had been in the past, did not think to risk such impudence once more. His next words utterly distracted her from these thoughts.

"There are dangers," he replied, the softness of his words at odds with the meaning implied by them. "Often where we least expect."

Isabella did not realize her brown eyes had grown wide, her cheeks pale despite the warmth of the day. She could not understand his meaning and finally shook her head, taking refuge in raillery, "Come, Mr. Maçon," she replied. "I would not have taken you for my former nursemaid—"

"Though I certainly sound like her," he smiled at her in response, all of his sobriety dissipated. He nodded to the book. "Miss Cadwallader suspected you had become distracted by your reading."

Isabella could only smile, easily able to imagine Sheil's grumbling. "She knows me all too well." Taking a quick breath, she stooped to retrieve her empty basket. "And your presence has reminded me I am sorely neglectful of my task." Now that she'd had time to absorb his appearance, she realized how idiotic her initial assumptions were. She refused to believe his presence indicated anything meaningful. Perhaps he was interested in forming an acquaintance with one of the few people who held the slightest of ties to his homeland. Perhaps someone had glimpsed his horse in the area and he wanted to ensure she and Sheil were aware of this development. But it could not be that he wished to pay her a call due to his interest in her, as such an interest simply could not be possible.

"There is a particularly advantageous spot just beyond the rise," he nodded in the direction from which he'd come. Isabella smiled and nodded in turn, catching up her skirts in one hand as she pushed through the high grass. Mr. Macon turned to accompany her, his docile mare trailing behind. As they reached the center of the field, Isabella's toe caught in the soft earth—for she did not expect the ground to rise as suddenly as it did, the height of the grass concealing the swell. In her peripheral vision, she thought she saw Mr. Maçon abruptly reach out a gloved hand as if to catch her—but as she quickly regained her balance and glanced in his direction, she saw his hands were at his sides, the knuckles again straining against the leather of his gloves.

Before she could form some light comment regarding her lack of grace, her eye was caught by the rich blanket of colors just beyond the rise.

"Oh," she quietly exclaimed. "You were quite right."

Mr. Maçon simply smiled in return, whatever uneasiness that had been permeating his frame now completely absent. "I believe I spied a wild rose in the midst of this copse."

Isabella could not help stooping, nearly on her knees as she examined the bed of flowers that bloomed in the slight shade provided by the rise. There was an abundance of gorse, which was the likely reason the flowers had been left unharmed by the cows and pigs let loose in this field each evening; the thorns would prove a deterrent while there were other grasses more easily consumed.

Mixed among the yellow gorse was the pale purple, lilac, and violet of thistle, knapweed and scabious, the flowers spiraling open to the sky. "My mother used to make tea from wild roses," Isabella murmured, peering down at the ground and endeavoring to find the bloom of which he'd spoken. Her eyes widened as she spied the near-white petals, just hidden between the spiny brambles of gorse.

"Did she?" Mr. Maçon replied, his tone so indifferent she could not help glancing over her shoulder, uncertain if she was boring him. He was staring down at the reins in his hand, but she could tell his attention was elsewhere, his brow vaguely furrowed. When he spoke next, all of her resolve to disregard his call as any expression of his interest instantly died.

"Will you be attending the assembly ball in Penzance this sennight hence?"

"I—oh!" Isabella had been reaching for the stalk of the wild rose, but in looking over her shoulder, she did not realize the bandage on her injured hand had caught on the thorny gorse. She sucked in a breath as her gaze flew back to her hand, the sting she felt indicating the wrappings had pulled away from her skin—likely tearing the scab. "Oh, no," she murmured. Realizing she could not pluck the rose without tearing her bandage free, she dropped the basket she'd been holding and reached through the brambles, biting her lip as she tugged at the length of linen. Then glancing over her shoulder she began to explain, "I was closing the shutters and didn't—"

But he was gone.

Isabella's eyes widened with disbelief and then narrowed with confusion, her gaze darting around the wide open meadow. But Mr. Maçon was nowhere to be seen, the reins he'd been holding trailing over the ground, his placid mare languidly chewing a stalk of thistle as though nothing untoward had occurred.

"Mr. Maçon?" Isabella called. She briefly wondered if she'd imagined the entire encounter, but as her gaze returned to Mr. Moorland's horse, she knew she hadn't dreamt him from the ether. "Mr. Maçon?" she called again, raising her voice. But as a bird fluttered from the branches of a distant tree, its wings briefly beating a pulse against the sky, she somehow knew he was far gone.

Isabella could not help her shoulders abruptly sagging, her confusion overwhelming. Where had he gone? And why? Did he regret enquiring about the ball? But if he was so concerned about misleading her, he could have simply changed the subject rather than flee her company. And how could he have fled so quickly that there was no trace of his presence—but for Mr. Moorland's old mare, whose blank gaze gave away nothing?

"I don't understand," she whispered as she shook her head, eyes briefly squeezing shut. But there was no response to her query, the sky blue and clear, the only sound the gentle swish of the breeze through the high grasses around her.

Her sigh was a mixture of frustration and confusion as she stooped to retrieve her basket. She knew she could not return to the cottage without having fetched the blooms which had been her primary excuse for escaping the confines of the house; she would never hear the end of it from Sheil, however gleeful she knew her companion must be at having received such an illustrious caller. Quickly, Isabella began plucking an array of flowers, pinching the stems with sharp motions, uncaring of the milky sap staining her fingers. One word echoed over and over in her mind, unable to understand the events of the afternoon: _why?_

As the light grew shadowed, the sun slipping behind high clouds, Isabella glanced to the sky before her gaze fell to the basket in her hands. A veritable bouquet rested within, and she slowly realized she was lingering in the fallow field, hopeful, waiting for Mr. Maçon to return. Her gaze turned to the docile horse that had barely stirred as she'd angrily snapped flowers into her basket; she had never quite understood why Mr. Maçon always held tight to the mare's reins, for it seemed unlikely the horse would ever bolt. But, like so many other things about the foreign visitor, she had no idea as to the answer.

Sighing again, Isabella bent, scooping the reins from the ground. "Come," she bid the horse, nodding towards the distant opening in the low stone fence. She was unsurprised the horse did not balk, shuffling behind as Isabella made her way to the narrow track that would take them east to Swan Cottage. Though she suspected Mr. Moorland's mare would likely have wandered back to town of her own accord, Isabella could not have possibly left her without any notion of when Mr. Maçon would return.

Through the short journey back to the cottage, Isabella tried to deny that she was surveying the road for Mr. Maçon, eyes narrow as she kept her chin high. Where he had gone was not her concern. And it was only common sense that dictated she should ensure his horse didn't come to any harm. As she reached the cottage and knotted the reins of the mare around the wrought iron fence post nearest the gate, she told herself she was not at all disappointed he was not waiting on the stoop, a sensible explanation on his lips.

Sheil's voice instantly called out as the door creaked open. "I saved stew for ye, Isabella!"

Isabella's lips parted, suddenly longing to speak, longing to rush to her former nurse and pour out her confusion and disappointment in a torrent of words. But she did not speak, knowing such an outburst would only agitate the elderly woman—and that Sheil would likely jump to wilder conclusions than what Isabella had supposed over the course of the afternoon. Instead, she crossed to the dining room and carefully set her basket and bonnet on the far end of the table before moving to the high-backed chair where she usually took her meals. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor, unable to meet Sheil's gaze.

"Child?" Sheil was instantly all concern despite Isabella's restraint, the smile audibly fading from her voice. "I told the gentleman where ye—"

"Yes," Isabella interrupted shortly, the word cold—before she erupted with sudden passion, eyes blazing, "But I have no idea as to his intentions!"

There was a long silence in which Isabella's muscles grew tense and tight, breath held, waiting for Sheil's response. She berated herself for failing to hold her tongue, certain the former nursemaid was now going to subject her to a litany of probing questions. Isabella's mind churned, struggling to find a reason for her outburst that would satisfy the former nursemaid. To her surprise, Sheil simply regarded her with a grim, inscrutable expression before finally announcing, "I never heard tell of any man who did know his own mind." She exhaled, turning her attention to the cloak she'd been mending when Isabella returned. "Never ye mind him then."

Somehow, Isabella's mood instantly lightened at this response; it took all of her willpower to resist throwing her arms around her companion, certain this would only further pique Sheil's restrained curiosity. Instead, Isabella simply smiled before turning to the bowl of warm stew before her and reaching for the spoon.

The sky was just beginning to grow violet with dusk when a knock sounded on the door. They had retired to the front sitting room after Isabella finished eating and Sheil had cleared the table, their conversation consisting of only the necessary exchanges. Sheil, who had risen to light the candles on the mantle, turned a startled gaze to Isabella, who perched on the settee with a neglected book in her hands. Isabella knew her own gaze to be equally surprised, and her eyes only grew wider as Sheil simply turned back to the mantle, her voice pragmatic as she asked, "Well, ain't ye going to see to that?"

It took several seconds for Isabella to absorb Sheil's words. When she finally registered their meaning, she jumped up and darted towards the door; then, remembering the book in her hands, she lurched back to drop it on a side table before hurrying again towards the corridor.

She paused in the entryway, willing the flutter of her pulse to slow. It was darker here than in the front sitting room for there were no wide windows thrown open to the last streaks of daylight, nor candles or rushlights to illuminate the gloom. She didn't realize her eyes had adjusted to the darkness until she slowly opened the door and her pupils shrank in the blue gray light of dusk, rendering the figure on the steps a mere silhouette.

Though she could not immediately make out his countenance, the pang of something pained and regretful lay within his tone—however mannered and smooth his words. "Miss Swan," he paused. "I do hope you accept my apologies for my inexcusable behavior."

Slowly, his features came into focus and while his expression was reserved, she did not doubt the emotion she had heard in his voice. "Mr. Maçon," she tilted her head, a faint line forming between her brows. "If I offended you—"

"Offend me?" His tone turned almost angry, black eyes glinting in the gloom. "In what manner could you have possibly caused offense?" His gaze fell, and the bitterness that now tinged his words was unmistakable. "I am a cad."

"Mr. Maçon," Isabella could not help protesting, his name almost a plea on her lips. "Certainly not that." Her voice turned curious. "For there must have been some reason…?" She could not put into words what had occurred, not entirely certain how to express his actions, his flight, his abrupt disappearance without a word of explanation.

But if she had thought that she would come to understand the reason for his behavior through finally speaking with him, she slowly began to realize she was sorely mistaken. For he did not respond, his lips thinning as his gaze remained trained on the ground, his hands balled into fists at sides. As the silence lengthened, she found herself nervously laughing to break the tension, attempting to prompt him again, "Come, now," she smiled. "Perhaps a wasp I did not see frightened you away?"

Though his gaze rose, black eyes sparkling with reluctant amusement, he simply shook his head. "I cannot explain."

"But—" she began to protest, frowning again.

"I cannot," he repeated, the words firm.

Isabella fell silent, her skin suddenly chilled as she began to understand that he was not going to provide her with any kind of satisfactory answer. What was more, while she had always suspected that there was something mysterious about the foreign visitor, she suddenly sensed he was hiding something much bigger than she could possibly comprehend.

Mr. Maçon bowed. "Good night, Miss Swan." He paused before turning away. "Please do consider the danger of so often being alone."

Isabella swallowed, silently watching as his tall frame grew fainter in the dimming light, only speaking as she heard him unlatch the gate. "Good night, Mr. Maçon."


	8. The Ball

_Thank you so much for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>I am half afraid of this ball to-night; for, you know, I have never danced but at school: however, Miss Mirvan says there is nothing in it. Yet, I wish it was over.<em>

_Evelina, or the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**eight**

Isabella might have been forgiven for bursting into laughter at Sheil's response to the question, "Is it too late to ask Mrs. Berty to procure vouchers for the next assembly ball in Penzance?" For the older woman's features, usually set into a furrowed mask of mild suspicion and disapproval, smoothed with undisguised surprise, her mouth agape with shock. The knife she'd been holding as they broke their fast in the dining room clattered to the table.

"W-what?"

Isabella repeated the question through her laughter, "The assembly ball—shall we get vouchers?"

Though Sheil had uncharacteristically restrained her curiosity about whatever conversations had occurred between Isabella and Mr. Maçon the prior day, on this point she could not suppress her incredulity. "Are ye feeling ill, child?" When Isabella began laughing again, Sheil's expression turned stubborn, plump arms crossing over her breasts as she blustered, "Ye know ye have fought me tooth and nail on going to the dances! Why should ye suddenly have any interest in dancing now?" Even as she spoke the words, a look of wonder widened her eyes, her hands falling to her sides as she leaned forward, "Did the gentleman…?"

Isabella shook her head but her lips still tilted with a faint smile, "He did enquire as to my attendance but I won't pretend to know his reasoning."

"Aye, but ye certainly have changed your tune, haven't ye?" Sheil nodded knowingly as she leaned back, her own thin lips curving into a pleased smile. "I'm certain Mrs. Berty would be more than willing to get us tickets—perhaps ye can help me write a note directly."

Isabella nodded, returning her attention to her meal. While Sheil was able to sign her name and make out words with which she was familiar, she was not proficient at reading and writing and relied on Isabella to help her with any correspondence. Though she knew herself to be a perfectly adequate nursemaid and companion, Sheil had never pretended she was also capable of being a governess. It was Renée who had ultimately taught Isabella her letters.

Once finished with breakfast, Sheil led the way to the study and Isabella took a seat at her father's desk, removing a half-sheet of foolscap from the drawer. While Sheil dictated a quick letter to Mrs. Berty, Isabella scribbled the request with a quill she suspected would split upon its next use. When the former nursemaid was finished, Isabella rose to her feet to allow Sheil to sit down and carefully add her signature at the bottom of the page. Sheil then quickly dashed a handful of sand upon the ink to quicken its drying. "Be sure to ask Mr. Connor to also enquire at the coachman's so we can hire a carriage for that night."

So it was that Isabella found herself nervously standing before her vanity in her bedchamber, hands fidgeting at her sides, resisting the urge to tug at her gown or pat her hair. The room was lit by a single candle whose flame flickered in the reflection of the looking glass, giving her pale face a ghostly aspect; it was dark for the hour was late, the assembly balls always commencing at eight in the evening. She wished she could see her gown in greater detail for she still was not entirely certain she shouldn't change into the same dress she'd worn last year.

She had tried to protest when Sheil first insisted she have something to wear that everyone wouldn't recognize. "We have no money for such things!" But Sheil had simply waved a hand and disappeared abovestairs, reappearing moments later with an armful of rich yellow fabric striped in blue.

"We'll take it to Mr. Snow to be made over," Sheil had blithely explained as she shook out the polonaise that had once belonged to Renée. "Get rid of some of this drapery."

Isabella had been dubious and couldn't fully accept that the changes the dressmaker had made were so thorough as to disguise the origins of the dress. He had raised the waist of the old gown and removed much of the excess fabric that had contributed to the draped panels that poufed at the hips and rear. As Isabella was slightly taller than her mother had been, he'd then used the excess fabric to hem the skirt, which was also a bit shorter than the current fashion in order to deliberately reveal the petticoat beneath. He had not used the fabric to fill in the open front of the gown, and while round gowns had only recently become ubiquitous, Isabella hoped she'd merely appear eccentric rather than outmoded with her underskirt showing. It was a heavy petticoat she'd purchased from Mr. Snow precisely to wear with this dress, much finer than what she usually wore, the hem boasting a deep row of pleats.

She raised a hand to her hair, unable to resist patting the looped knot Sheil had pinned into place much higher than usual. "It'll emphasize the length of your neck, child," she'd insisted. Her gaze shifted to the sleeves of the gown, which had been shortened to reveal much of her upper arms, the lace that had once frilled the edges now removed. This was meant to allow her to wear the long gloves which were currently in fashion, but with her hand still heavily bandaged, she'd only donned one. The neckline was quite low but this was one element of fashion that had not changed from thirty years before. Isabella still could not resist tugging at it, certain her other evening gown was not so revealing.

"Are ye done fussing, child?" Sheil called up the stairwell. "The coach is here!"

With one final glance of trepidation to the looking glass, Isabella blew out the candle and flew from the room. Belowstairs, she donned her cloak before hurrying through the door Sheil held open; she glanced to the sky as she passed over the gravel path to the carriage waiting at the gate, her gaze caught by the full moon above. The stars were dim in comparison, rendered the faintest of marks by the bright glow. As the carriage door slapped shut behind Sheil, Isabella did not realize her gaze did not stray from the window, unable to resist watching as the moon followed them down the narrow road to the Coast Path.

Isabella knew the assembly balls were always scheduled to coincide with the fullest phase of the moon in order to allow attendees the most light by which to travel. Nonetheless, she could not help feeling a sense of foreboding despite her usual lack of superstition, a faint line forming between her brows as she forced her gaze to fall to her hands in her lap. She reminded herself it wasn't necessary to be superstitious about full moons to feel unsettled. After all, there were any number of matters about which she could harbor trepidation. What if Miss Rosalie Hale was in attendance at the ball; would the tall blonde behave as rudely as she had in the past? Would Mr. Maçon, the source of her anticipation, even be in attendance? And if he was, would he flee her company as he'd done once before? What if neither Miss Hale nor Mr. Maçon bothered to attend, and she spent the entirety of the evening in bored disappointment, listening to Mrs. Berty and Sheil gossip about the other attendees?

These thoughts occupied her mind for the majority of the journey through towns that had grown dark and shuttered with night, but for the few lamps that provided a halo of yellow outside public houses which would be open for business as long as there were customers to serve. If Sheil sensed Isabella's disquiet, she gave no indication, chattering with excitement of the people she hoped to see, and how she expected Mrs. Berty would be wearing the turban she'd mentioned purchasing in her last letter.

As the roads were dry and the sky was cloudless, allowing the bright moon to guide the way, they were soon at their destination. The assembly hall had been built less than fifteen years before and Isabella could recall how excited her mother had been at the news, anticipating with her usual enthusiasm the opportunity to dance and play cards, listen to music, however rustic, and enjoy the company of the local gentry. How different Renée might have felt from her daughter, who could not help her slightly sickly expression as she jockeyed with the crowd that had congested in the vestibule of the hall, discarding cloaks and great coats, calling greetings, and straightening cravats and skirt hems.

Isabella's expression remained wary and pale as she passed from the vestibule into the main hall, her gaze self-consciously trained on her exposed bosom and wishing she had a fan behind which to hide. A voice caught her attention almost the instant in which she crossed the threshold, her gaze jerking from her breasts with a hot blush of embarrassment. "Miss Swan, how good to see you here."

"Mr. M-Maçon," she stuttered, lifting her hands as if to cool her cheeks and then abruptly dropping them as she realized she was acting a flustered idiot. "How do you do?" she finally managed.

"Quite well," he bowed and her eyes narrowed to see the slightest hint of amusement in his dark gaze. "I trust your journey was uneventful."

"Quite," she responded tightly, but Sheil utterly undermined her attempt at haughtiness by brightly chiming in.

"The moon's nearly as bright as the sun tonight, isn't it? Our trip was perhaps the quickest it's ever been!"

"That is indeed wonderful news," Mr. Maçon bowed to her companion, his smile widening. Then, turning back to Isabella, he asked, "Do I have permission to secure your hand for the first dance?"

Isabella's cheeks grew heated again, her narrowed eyes growing wide at this abrupt shift in subject—and that he should be so unhesitating in paying her this attention.

"Y-yes," she stuttered again, and bit her lip in consternation, frustrated she was unable to act as unaffected as he appeared to be.

Mr. Maçon turned back to Sheil, "And I trust you will allow me to join you both for supper?"

Sheil's smile was unrelentingly bright, her hand lifted in an almost flirtatious wave, "But of course, Mr. Maçon!"

He glanced over his shoulder quickly and bowed once more, "But do not let me monopolize you." His black eyes focused on Isabella's pale face, "I will find you for my dance."

She could have sworn to feel her cheeks blooming with heat again, but was soon distracted by the exuberant greeting of Mrs. Berty and her dour husband, who was a solicitor in nearby Heamoor. "My dear, how wonderful your gown! And Sheil has dressed your hair quite finely!" Her voice dropped to a whisper as she glanced over her shoulder, "Is that the French gentleman I've heard so much of? He is quite handsome!"

Fortunately, Sheil was full of enough chatter for she and Isabella both, launching into the tale of Mr. Maçon's visit to the cottage, the rumors she'd heard from Mr. Eldritch, and the reason she'd indulged in having an old gown altered for her charge. "I couldn't dare let Isabella show her face in the same gown she's worn these past four years."

Mrs. Berty nodded her head in adamant agreement, failing to notice Mr. Berty's bow to both Isabella and Sheil before he mumbled something about the card room and promptly disappeared into the crowd. Isabella watched him go with a gaze that was almost sorrowful, wishing she could go with him.

"Miss Swan!" She started as Mr. James Eldritch Junior appeared before her, seeming to have leapt from the crowd milling around them.

"Mr. James," she responded, uncertain where to look for his blue eyes were so eager and bright.

"I am so pleased to see you in attendance," he bowed, his blond hair nearly sweeping into his eyes with the motion.

"Why—thank you," she finally responded, noticing with the faintest frown that he appeared to be having trouble raising his gaze much higher than the neckline of her gown.

"Would you do me the honor of allowing me the first dance?"

The abrupt cessation of Mrs. Berty and Sheil's chatter might have otherwise caused her to laugh, but she was so dismayed by Mr. James' attention that she could only flush instead. Her voice was low when she replied, "I'm afraid I've promised that dance to another."

His expression was so surprised, eyes wide, mouth momentarily gaping, that she could feel nothing but insulted, her own gaze narrowing at his presumption. Why should he be the only one who wished to stand up with her? Fortunately for Mr. James, he quickly recovered, smiling and bowing his head before he asked, "Then the second dance—please say you will be my partner."

Though she longed to deny the young man, her chin high with pride, Isabella knew it would be the height of rudeness and simply nodded her head, forcing herself to tightly smile. "As you wish."

His responding smile was bright and she momentarily regretted her reluctance to be in his company; perhaps it was Sheil's influence, always so disapproving and full of suspicion.

But there was no time to dwell on this thought for the string quartet at the far end of the hall had begun tuning their instruments, indicating they would soon launch into the first minuet. "Don't dawdle, child!" Sheil hissed behind her, a firm hand in the small of Isabella's back, urging her forward.

She moved slowly towards the cluster of dancers forming at the far end of the room, barely able to lift her gaze from the floor, certain this moment could not be real. She had only rarely participated in the dancing at past balls, and had never stepped forward for the first dance—much less with such a handsome, well-mannered gentleman.

Only she did not see Mr. Maçon, finally lifting her head to crane her neck in an attempt to peer over the crowd, her hands curling into nervous fists before her. Perhaps it was all in jest, his interest in her only a mockery…

"I'm here," a low voice murmured behind her.

Isabella spun on her heel, eyes wide, unaware of how the sheen of her gown caught the light of the candles in the chandelier above. An expression of relief swiftly replaced the worry and trepidation that had been evident on her pale face, a smile curling over her lips. "Mr. Maçon," she curtsied.

He bowed deeply, his half-smile a mixture of amusement and something more as his dark eyes rested on her figure. Isabella found she could look no where else, her gaze fixed on his as the string quartet struck up the first notes of the minuet.

Somehow, she made her way through the steps of the dance, breath caught in her throat, eyes bright, listening to the conversation of the other partners around her as though in a daze. To her surprise, Mr. Maçon's attention seemed equally fixed, his gaze rarely leaving her upturned face, his half-smile unrelenting as he took her gloved hand and they promenaded the length of the hall.

It was only as they moved into the third figure that she was startled from her reverie. For, as he gently took her opposite hand for the second promenade, the bare skin of her ungloved fingers just brushed the expanse of pale skin between the linen of his shirt cuff and the silk of his glove.

It was as if a spark from a fire stoked too high had landed against her fingertips—yet, somehow, the sensation was cold as well, as if she'd plunged only that expanse of skin into the ocean on a winter's day. It took all of her willpower not to flinch—though her lips parted in shock, her gaze flying to his as she nearly faltered in the measured steps of the minuet. She was somehow relieved to find him equally startled, his dark eyes on her own, before he quickly recovered, his expression smoothing into mild indifference.

Isabella forced her mouth to close, struggling for the calm he was so easily demonstrating—but her eyes remained wide as she focused on executing the steps of the dance, forcing herself to release his hand though she longed to tighten her grip. Her gaze fell to the shining parquet beneath her feet as she turned and promenaded the length of the hall alone, breathing in time to the music so that she wouldn't rush to the fourth figure—where she knew they would join hands once more.

But he had subtly shaken his cuff into place, lids low over his eyes as he finally spoke, the words unerringly polite, "I trust your hand has begun to mend."

Isabella nodded shortly, swallowing before she responded. "Sheil believes I'll be able to go without bandages in a day or two."

Mr. Maçon bowed his head as they proceeded again down the hall. "She is knowledgeable in these matters."

Isabella nodded again as he released her hands, then paused as the dance brought them to the first figure; the distance between them was too great to continue speaking. The strings struck up the second passage and he bowed forward, taking her gloved hand once more. "My mother was quite the nurse," Isabella confessed, quickly glancing around the hall to try to ascertain whether Rosalie Hale was present. "And Sheil wanted to learn as much as she could."

"A wise decision."

Isabella finally smiled, having managed to recover her senses enough to respond with wry normalcy. "Sheil prefers to be useful." But her cheeks were still pale beneath the glow of the candles for she could not forget the strange sensation that had so startled her upon touching the heated chill of the skin at his wrist.

"She has been with you for some time?" he enquired, one black brow rising slightly with the question.

Isabella nodded as they again promenaded the length of the hall. "She was my father's nurse before me."

"You must tell her I anticipate amusing tales of your childhood at supper then." His smile was rakish as he bowed low with the final figure of the dance.

Isabella was grateful her cheeks only grew slightly warm, her gaze cast to the shining parquet before she recalled she must applaud the efforts of the musicians. She turned her eyes to the far end of the hall but could not see the players through the throng of people; when she looked back to Mr. Maçon to comment on the crowd, she found he was gone.

She realized she was more disappointed than surprised at this discovery and vowed to tease him for his abrupt departures when she saw him at supper—for having now mentioned the matter twice, she was relatively certain she would see him at that time. Though she could not imagine the reason for it, his interest in her was no jest.

She was disrupted from these thoughts by an eager voice, "Miss Swan!" It was James Eldritch Junior, ducking his head as he attempted to catch her distracted gaze. "I believe it has come time for me to claim my dance."

Isabella managed a faint smile but as the quartet struck up another minuet, she found she could not concentrate on the conversation Mr. James was attempting to make; her mind returned, again and again, to Mr. Maçon and his mysterious behavior, wondering what could be the reason for his sudden flights—and what lay at the heart of the burning sensation that had accompanied touching his bare wrist.

"Miss Swan?"

Isabella's eyes abruptly focused and she realized she'd been passing through the dance as though in a dream, her thoughts entirely elsewhere. "I apologize, Mr. James. What were you saying?"

His blue eyes narrowed, his full lips twisting ever so slightly as he repeated himself, "I was asking whether any sheep had gotten trapped in your garden again." His tone was peevish, rendering the playful comment flat.

Nonetheless, Isabella smiled lightly, "Thankfully, no." As they stepped into the first figure and then joined hands again to begin a second promenade, she added, "Mr. Bannion must be herding his flock far from Swan Cottage."

"But everyone knows what fondness animals have for you!" Mr. James laughed, his mood lightening in turn. "Even my father's unruly horse calms when we pass the time at your home."

Isabella frowned, caught unawares by the idea that her strange affinity for animals both wild and tame was a characteristic well-known to others. She had always assumed it to be an odd ability that would gain little notice if she made no attempt to demonstrate it in front of anyone. But clearly, it was more comment-worthy than she knew. Perhaps her offense at Mr. Maçon's teasing was less justifiable than she realized.

"Miss Swan?"

Isabella started for she had become lost in thought again, Mr. James' voice nearly irate as he attempted to regain her attention. His grip upon her gloved hand tightened momentarily and she spoke quickly, pretending a lack of familiarity with the minuet. "I do apologize, Mr. James. It is such a rare instance in which I dance these steps."

"You performed well enough with Mr. Maçon." There was no mistaking the peevishness in his tone now, nor the tight grip of his fingers around her own. Isabella's lips grew thin, refusing to apologize or explain any further; she had no desire to be in Mr. James' good graces and saw no point in making excuses. He had been an entitled, priggish youth whenever she had encountered him as a child, and he was no different now.

Seeing she would make no further comment, his features grew dark with anger, blond brows low over his eyes, lips mulish beneath the faint shadow of his mustache. Isabella briefly wondered if he would be so rude as to abandon her in the midst of the dance, but he managed to remain gentleman enough to finish out the final figure, turning to applaud the musicians at the far end of the room before abruptly striding away.

Isabella could feel nothing so much as bewilderment, her brow knit with a mixture of emotions; dismay with herself for having failed to maintain a modicum of manners with Mr. James, annoyance with the young man for his easily-damaged pride, lingering confusion at Mr. Maçon's strange habits, disbelief in his preference for her company, and a general sense of fascination with him as a person. With this tumult swirling inside, she could not have forborne another dance; she kept her gaze carefully trained upon her slippers as she made her way to the card room, sighing with relief when she found it nearly empty.

A round table nearest the door was occupied by a trio of players who were all intently focused upon their game of whist; Mr. Berty was among their number, but his gaze was so focused upon his hand that he did not note Isabella's appearance. Several other tables were arranged within, but their chairs remained empty as the majority of the crowd had only just arrived and had not yet wearied their feet with dancing, milling about the main hall making conversation with acquaintances and friends, or listening to the music.

A fire roared behind a screen in the far corner, an array of upholstered armchairs clustered near its warmth; Isabella saw these too were unoccupied and hurried over, hopeful the high back of the armchair would conceal her presence from any casual observers as long as she fully turned it to face the fire. She did not think she could begin to form any responses to the questions Sheil might ask, and sank into the chair grateful for a respite from any conversation.

She had just begun to convince herself she had imagined the strange sensation she'd felt when her bare fingertips had accidentally brushed Mr. Maçon's wrist when the voices of other revelers began to sound behind her. The final minuet had ended and the musicians were briefly pausing before playing the reels and cotillions that would constitute the remainder of the dances for the evening.

Isabella knew she should rise, that the upholstered chairs and hearty fire were for the more elderly attendees who would refrain from dancing and feel the chill of the hall more distinctly. What's more, Sheil was likely wondering where she had gone and Isabella didn't want her companion to worry. She lingered, though, reluctant to return to the revelry, recalling with sudden clarity why she had always resisted Sheil's constant prodding to attend these events. She had never enjoyed crowds, felt herself to be a competent dancer at best, and struggled to make conversation with those she didn't know well. As she gazed down at her lap, plucking at the fabric of her dress, she wished she could sometimes be more like her mother and enjoy the ball independent of the reason that had prompted her to attend.

"Mr. Biers was so kind as to ask me to dance!" A breathless voice distracted Isabella from her thoughts, likely no more than a few paces behind the chair where she was hiding.

"Oh, Philomena! As if it could be a surprise." The second voice gently laughed. "Did he not call at your house after services last Sunday?"

"'Tis true though I can scarcely believe it! Mother says he has two thousand a year and a coach of his own."

"Aye, but Bristol is such a distance from Penzance. Should we ever see you again?"

"Fie, Mary! Have you already married me off when the gentleman has but asked for one dance!"

"And called at your house!" The second speaker protested. "What good fortune he knew your brother from university. If only I had a brother…"

"A brother who might introduce you to Mr. Maçon?" The first speaker archly asked.

"Philomena!" Mary hissed. "Pray keep your voice down." Isabella could feel her cheeks flush and knew it was not due to the glow of the fire warming her face.

"La, Mary, as if we're the only ones here discussing the handsome Frenchman. Have you heard him speak? His accent is divine…"

"How quickly you have forgotten your Mr. Biers!"

"Come, Mary, don't be jealous." Philomena's teasing tone rapidly shifted to sincere pleading. "As if Mr. Maçon has eyes for anyone except Isabella Swan."

"Can you imagine!" Mary rejoined, having recovered her spirits. "Such a gentleman, so refined." Isabella's hands had curled into such tight fists in her lap that her nails would have pierced her palms had she not sported a bandage on one hand and a glove on the other.

"He must have a fortune," Philomena breathed. "He is easily the most finely dressed of all the gentlemen here."

"As if Mr. Crowley or Mr. Brett could hope to compare," Mary snorted. "Half the gentlemen here look as if they could scarcely tell their dancing slippers from their riding boots. Mr. Crowley near crushed my toes in the last minuet."

"Mother heard tell Mr. Maçon's grandmother was a viscountess in France."

"I would not doubt it," Mary replied. "What could be the reason for his interest in Isabella Swan?"

"Did you not see her arrive?" Philomena asked. "She is quite fair—"

"But poor as a church mouse!" Mary protested.

"Aye, but if he has a fortune he can marry where he wishes, can he not?" Philomena asked. "I have not seen her in some time as she only rarely comes to the market here in Penzance—but she is as fair as I recall, and much improved with a new gown."

"Fair?" Mary scoffed. "I do not believe it. Is she not dark-haired? And I've heard she's no servants to speak of. No, she must be black as a farm hand!"

"You arrived too late to see her dancing with Mr. Maçon—her complexion is enviable—" Philomena attempted to protest.

"Certainly more so than Miss Hale," Mary laughed.

"You are too cruel!" Philomena laughed in turn.

"It's the only explanation," Mary rejoined through breathless laughter. "She has enchanted him—with whatever sorcery she inherited from her mother."

Isabella could listen to no more. She surged from her chair, uncaring of whether the two young girls witnessed her flight, and hurried from the card room as swiftly as her feet would carry her.


	9. Phænomenon

_Apologies for the delay. Thank you so much for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>These are Matters of Fact, which I assure you they are truely related. But these, and all others that occurred to me…could never lead me into a remote Conjecture of the Cause of so extraordinary a Phænomenon. Whither it be a Quality in the Eyes of some People…concurring with a Quality in the Air…whither such Species be every where, tho not seen by the Want of Eyes so qualified—or from whatever other Cause, I must leave to the Inquiry of clearer judgements than mine.<em>

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies, Robert Kirk_

**nine**

"Sheil, my head is pounding." The low voice was imbued with such pain that Sheil swiftly turned around, her attention immediately drawn from the tale of Mrs. Berty's most recent trip to Falmouth.

Though words of protest instinctively rose to her tongue, Sheil's lips thinned with surprise and concern upon finding Isabella unmistakably affected; her pallor was sickly and white, her brow knit with a deep frown, her hands trembling at her sides. "Child, what's happened?" Sheil swiftly shifted from her initial response, raising a gloved hand to Isabella's elbow.

But the dark haired girl simply shook her head, her teeth cutting into her bottom lip until the pink flesh paled with lack of blood. "I'm certain Mrs. Berty has hartshorn…" But Isabella shook her head again and Sheil turned to Mrs. Berty, who had fallen silent with equal concern. "Would ye be so kind as to ask the maid to fetch our wraps? I'll see to the footman." Mrs. Berty nodded before she turned and made her way through the crowd towards the vestibule.

Sheil hesitated, then ducked her head in an attempt to catch Isabella's gaze, endeavoring one last time to convince her charge to stay. "Are ye certain a glass of ratafia won't set ye to rights?"

Isabella shook her head violently, brown eyes rising from her feet as she pleaded. "I just want to go home." The torment apparent in her gaze was answer enough for Sheil. She took Isabella's hand in a firm grip and led the way through the throng of people, following in Mrs. Berty's wake. The maid was waiting in the vestibule with their wraps and Sheil was relieved to see Mrs. Berty already in conversation with the footman, who would see to calling their carriage.

"Thank ye, Mrs. Berty. Ye are a savior."

Mrs. Berty simply nodded before placing a gentle hand on Isabella's shoulder. "See you get some rest, Miss Swan." Then, to Sheil she added, "Perhaps a bit too much excitement for one night."

Sheil simply nodded, then exhaled with relief as the footman gestured from the doorway, indicating their carriage was ready. "Good evening, Mrs. Berty."

"Good evening to you, too."

Then they were out in the cold air of the spring evening, the bright moon partially obscured by high clouds above. Sheil gestured for Isabella to step into the carriage first, wary the poor girl might faint given how clammy her hand had felt when Sheil took it in her own moments ago. It was only when the carriage was rattling down the cobblestone roads of Penzance that Sheil spoke again, certain there must be something more behind their sudden departure. It was difficult to believe that after asking to attend the ball she'd always merely tolerated, and receiving the pointed attentions of such eligible gentlemen, that Isabella could have had such an abrupt change of heart.

"Child, did something happen?" A sudden thought occurred to her. "I would have expected Miss Hale to open the ball had she been present—did she arrive late and snub ye?"

"No," Isabella's voice was a near moan and, as the moon shone through the carriage windows, Sheil could see she'd raised her hands to her head, gripping her skull as though she might force the headache away with sheer will. "Please, Sheil. No one was unkind to me."

At least, Isabella thought, no one had openly snubbed her. But she saw no use in riling her former nursemaid with the details of the conversation she'd overheard. Sheil would likely lose her temper and froth at the mouth for the duration of the ride back to Mousehole, lamenting the poor manners of the two girls, likely chiding Isabella for failing to rise from her hiding place more quickly and cutting the conversation short, and finishing the tirade with curses at the Fates themselves when she recalled Mr. Maçon was waiting to sup with them.

Sheil sighed loudly but remained silent for the remainder of the journey; Isabella could see her arms were crossed over her breasts in the dim shadows of the carriage's interior, her lips a thin line. This set expression only shifted to one of surprise, and then suspicion, when the carriage drew to a halt before Swan Cottage.

Isabella did not first comprehend the reason for this change in Sheil's demeanor, too distracted by her own thoughts and the faint but lingering pounding of her head to attend to why her companion was bidding the coachman to wait at the gate. "I'll be out directly should we find it's simply the candle that's gone out." It was only as Isabella registered the unrelieved darkness that made navigating the gravel path from the gate to the door more difficult than usual that she realized the lantern was missing. Sheil usually left it hanging on a hook next to the door, a fat tallow candle anchored within.

As Isabella carefully climbed the front steps, wondering at the clouds that had so swiftly obscured the bright moon, her gaze was involuntarily drawn to the left of the door—for there was a light inside, a hazy glow of yellow flickering behind the drapes of the front sitting room windows. "Well, I'll be…" Sheil whispered as she flung open the front door and hurried into the corridor. "Who's there? Meg, ye know ye can't run away from home every time ye get in a tussle with your brother—"

Isabella followed her former nursemaid with measured steps, a knot of certainty growing within that it was not Meg in the front sitting room, nor Mrs. Hammet—nor anyone they knew. The pounding in her head abruptly ceased as she drew up behind Sheil at the threshold and peered over her shoulder, breath caught in her chest. Isabella's eyes widened as she saw the seemingly innocuous figure of an old woman sitting in an armchair before the cold grate of the fireplace; there was but a small circle of light from the lantern on the cherry table before her, the room otherwise shadowed and dark, the tallow candle throwing fluttering figures across the papered walls. "Well, and who might ye be?!" Sheil cried, her voice filled with wary affront.

The old woman lifted her gaze from where her hands rested limply in her lap, her wrinkled features illuminated by the flame of the candle dancing within the glass panes of the lantern. The breath Isabella had been holding whooshed from her lungs in one gasp, a hand rising to her lips with the shock of seeing her eyes—and knowing who this woman was without any doubt.

"Marie Aecenbotme." Her voice was raspy with age but there was no mistaking the French accent that marked the words. "Isabella's grandmother." Her white hair was pulled into a neat knot at her crown, the violet fabric of her gown just visible beneath the folds of her heavy black cloak.

"It can't be," Sheil exhaled, all of her bravado draining from her figure as she took one hesitant step into the room.

"I could not come before," Marie spoke calmly, her gaze shifting to the settee opposite the chair in which she sat. "And I cannot stay long. Isabella, please come—there is much to discuss."

Sheil struggled to recover from her shock, her voice dubious as she attempted to protest, "Now, ye can't just turn up in the middle of the night—"

"But, Sheil," Isabella raised a hand to her companion's arm, realizing it was necessary to intervene. "Can't you see it's true?" Though the old woman's eyes were faded with age, her gaze was too unusual to deny the claim that she was Renée's mother. For were their eyes not exactly the same? Like Renée, Marie's eyes did not reflect the same color; even in the shadowed lantern light, Isabella could see her right eye was a cloudy blue, while the other glittered green as a jewel. It was one of the few things about which Renée had felt any self-consciousness, often keeping her gaze downcast when being introduced to people she had never met before. When Isabella was a child, her mother had often commented on how grateful she was that her daughter had inherited Charles' brown eyes.

"Aye, but—"

"Sheil, you should see to the coachman." Isabella's voice was firm, her gaze steady. "I can meet with Marie and see to the spare bedchamber."

Sheil hesitated, her brow furrowed as she turned to Isabella, blue eyes filled with worry. Finally, with a grumble of dissatisfaction, she turned from the room. Isabella soon heard the slam of the front door from the corridor.

Marie regarded the younger woman with an unwavering gaze for several seconds before her eyes again fell to her lap. Finally, she exhaled, "How I wish I could have come sooner." The words were poignant, imbued with wistfulness and bitterness. "But the unrest…and now that upstart, Bonaparte…" Her voice trailed into silence before she briskly shook her head. "But it is no use regretting things that cannot be undone."

Isabella had drawn further into the room and now sank into the settee opposite the bent figure of her grandmother. "_Mére_ spoke of you often," Isabella responded quietly. "Of you, of home. Of Brocéliande and galettes and all the things she missed."

Marie's lips curved into a thin smile. "The forest. Yes, Brocéliande—she was there often as a girl. As was I, and my mother before me." Her eyes narrowed, her expression suddenly focused and shrewd. "But tell me, _ma fille_—your mother must have spoken to you of things other than her homeland."

Isabella's brow furrowed, confused, the question so pointed that she felt there must be something implied by the words that she did not quite understand. "But of course." She listed the first things that came to mind. "Because Father was often away, she spoke of him incessantly," Isabella could not help a small smile. "And her garden—the flowers she wished to plant and the herbs she wished to harvest. And—"

Marie shook her head impatiently, a disapproving huff of breath shooting past her lips. "Bah, no, no!" Her uncanny eyes fixed on Isabella's oval face, brows low. "Your schooling—your lessons."

Isabella tilted her head, still failing to understand why, after years of silence, upon finally seeing the granddaughter she had never had the opportunity to meet, this was the first thing Marie wished to know. "I did not have a governess but _Mére_ taught me my letters—as well as pianoforte, embroidery, a little Latin—"

That explosive huff of air burst past Marie's lips again and she shifted in her chair with impatience. "Bah, child! I do not speak of these things. I speak of the other arts."

Isabella's brow furrowed more deeply, at a loss and desperately wishing she understood why this was so important. "I know not what you speak of. Greek? The classics? I admit to having only read the Iliad in English—"

But Marie would hear no more, one wrinkled hand cutting through the air with an impatient gesture. "No, Isabella!" She peered at her granddaughter, her expression a mixture of disbelief and frustration. "Do you mean to tell me your mother never schooled you on your birthright?"

For several seconds Isabella found she could not breathe, the room completely silent as she distantly thought how strange it was to see her mother so distinctly in the gaze of this older woman—and yet Marie was so utterly unlike Renée, her back bowed, her face a maze of lines, her voice filled with rasping impatience, that the impression was like seeing a painting dissolve beneath water, the oils bleeding and swirling before her eyes. Slowly, she realized she must respond though she feared the answer to her query, her hands trembling in her lap. "My birthright?"

Marie did not hesitate, her eyes wide as she leaned forward, outrage apparent in her tone. "Do you mean to tell me Renée never schooled you in _les dons_?" Isabella's lips parted, her eyes wide, Marie's final words echoing in her head like a gong.

_Les dons._

The gifts.

Isabella sank back against the settee, as if she could physically escape the implication of Marie's words, her cheeks pale, eyes wide and staring. She longed to dismiss the aged woman's words as madness—perhaps due to her years, or all that she'd likely seen during the turmoil of the revolution. But somewhere in her heart she knew Marie was as sharp as a knife and would not speak nonsense.

As if Isabella's shocked reaction contained all she needed to know, Marie continued without waiting for a response. "Bah!" She waved a hand again, the motion disgustedly dismissive. "I might have guessed my daughter would try to shield you." Her gaze narrowed as she leaned forward again, her stare intent and thoughtful, as if she was listening to something Isabella could not hear. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. "But it matters not, does it? For you are blessed, whatever Renée may have desired." Her eyes sank shut as she slowly nodded her head. "And you know as much, do you not? The signs, they are present. It is clear as day."

Isabella began to shake her head, the movement becoming violent as she struggled to find her voice. But her lips were dry, her mouth full of sand as she tried to protest, tried to pretend she had no understanding of what Marie was saying. "I-I…"

But Marie would not listen, her certainty like a rod straightening her bent spine, her voice blithely dismissive as she interrupted, "You may plead ignorance with me all you like but I can see you know, _jeune fille_. Even if I were not blessed myself." She leaned forward again, gnarled hands braced upon her knees, "I can see it in your eyes. You know." She paused and Isabella was relieved to see Marie's shrewd gaze fall to her lap again. It was a reprieve that allowed her to gather her thoughts, struggling to think of some way to convince her grandmother that she was wrong, that she spoke of superstition and fairy tales and Isabella wanted no part of it.

But Marie's next question knocked the breath from Isabella's lungs as effectively as if she'd fallen from a horse while at full gallop across a field.

"You know when someone is coming, mayhap hours before they arrive?'

Isabella's eyes swiftly sank shut as she lifted hands curled into fists before her heart, denial on her lips though she could not breathe, could not speak. And even as she fought to say the words, her mind was filled with memories, so many memories, too many occurrences to count.

Rising from her knees in the garden, certain she'd heard the wagon wheels of Mr. Connor's cart…then waiting at the gate, a hand shielding her eyes, bemused by the empty road before her gaze. Hurrying from the house on some pretense, filled with anticipation...no, more than anticipation. Expectation. And though she could not have articulated it until she'd heard the gallop of his horse's hooves, she had known.

How often had she bid Sheil to heat water for tea, suspecting Mr. Eldritch would pay a call on his way to St. Buryan? She had always told herself that it was simply a matter of timing, that anyone could predict when the older gentleman would call if they knew the intervals at which he visited his son and daughter-in-law. But with Marie's gimlet eyes trained upon her, Isabella knew such denials would hold no water.

Marie did not need a response to know the answer to her question. She went on, "And mayhap you know other things—though you do not know how you know." Though Isabella could not breathe, could not speak, she found herself nodding, the air gushing from her lungs as if a great weight had been lifted from her chest.

Marie nodded though there was little satisfaction in the movement, her gaze resigned as it fell to her lap, her voice tinged with sadness as she spoke, "Renée could always tell when a storm was near."

Isabella finally found her voice. "I cannot—" The words died abruptly as she thought of the rain the other day, the hail pattering down, the shutter banging against her hand. It suddenly ached.

Marie's eyes widened ever so slightly as she saw Isabella was no longer filled with protests. "Yes, but other things. Yes?

Isabella's gaze was cast to the shadowed carpets, her bandaged hand curled into a fist, the words passing her lips with effort, unable to fully overcome her reluctance. She could not help thinking that at any moment she would awake in her bed, restless and clammy beneath the sheets, all of this a hazy dream. "Visitors, sometimes." Her voice was soft. "But nothing of import." Her gaze rose. "I did not know when my father passed, though _Mére_ somehow knew—"

Marie nodded her head sharply. "Yes, and had Renée given you guidance, you might have developed your ability." She sighed deeply.

"And I have not her talent in the garden," Isabella went on. She bit her lip as she recalled the gaudy roses that had seemed to open overnight beneath her mother's ministrations. She had always thought it a childhood memory distorted by time. "Though I am told I have a talent with other living things." Her lips quirked as she thought of Mr. Maçon's teasing.

Marie nodded, as if this was to be expected. "But what else?" Her gaze cast around the room though Isabella somehow knew she did not see its contents, the papered walls, the basket of mending, the worn rugs. "My mother, your great grandmother, was a...we would say _invocateur_. You might say—" she squinted, searching for the word.

"Summoner. Caller."

Isabella could not have thought to endure any further shocks to her system, but somehow she was still upright, the fabric of her cloak rough beneath her fingertips, beneath hands that twitched and flexed, as if the movements could force her mind to accept this was all real.

Marie sensed her stunned reaction despite the gloom of the room, her voice insistent as she commanded, "Tell me."

Isabella hesitated only a moment. "After _Mére_ died," she paused as she was taken back to that day, to the confusion and grief, the unbearable loss. Her eyes were wide but unseeing, recalling how the sun had faded from the bedchamber windows, her mother still and gray upon the white sheets. Mr. Cameron had been kind enough to come and administer last rites as Renée wished, and now he stood with Sheil, their voices whispers as they discussed the arrangements.

"Yes, child," Marie urged her.

Isabella blinked before her gaze fell to her hands. Her voice was flat when she spoke. "I was distraught. I knew it was for the best—Sheil cannot bear to speak of it now, but at the time she said it was only heartbreak that could have killed my mother's spirit. Only losing my father could have made her so ill." Isabella inhaled. "I knew it was for the best that she and my father finally be together." She shook her head. "But I could not help my sadness. When Sheil was preparing supper, after Mr. Cameron had left to fetch the undertaker…I ran from the cottage."

Marie's eyes abruptly glazed over, and Isabella could not help her fascination, watching closely as the older woman spoke as though in a trance. "And you became lost."

Isabella nodded though she knew her grandmother's eyes did not see her. "Yes, in the woods. _Mére_ died at dusk and it had grown quite dark." Isabella shook her head. "I had no purpose in mind." But she could not bear to stay in the cottage where that gray figure lay, not at all like the vibrant, gay woman her mother had been. "I lost sight of the road and could not hear the ocean." She shook her head, thinking how reckless she had been to careen through the forest in the dark of night. "I thought to find my way back," she whispered, recalling how she had suspected she was nearer the Hammets' property rather than her own. Yet the light she knew she should see in the dark of the woods was no where to be found. "Hours passed and I became cold." Her eyes sank shut, thinking of that desperate moment, the fear that had chilled her blood, her bare hands curled against her lips for warmth. "I did not call aloud—"

Marie's eyes grew clear. "But it was in your thoughts."

Isabella nodded. "And Mr. Hammet found me."

Marie sank back into the chair, her gaze weary. "It is as I suspected." She shook her head. "But there is no time to train you..." she paused, her gaze narrowing and filled with curiosity rather than censure as she regarded her granddaughter over the flickering light of the lantern. "And I sense you do not wish to be trained."

Isabella hesitated, her eyes wide, before she spoke haltingly. "I have not fully convinced myself this is not all-all fancy..." And what's more, that in pursuing such things she would not risk standing out even further as an oddity than was already the case.

But Marie silenced her lingering denials with one low, authoritative word—a name, though it was not Isabella she was speaking to, nor anyone living.

"Renée."

Isabella sucked in a breath as wind moaned down the chimney, stirring the ashes in the grate, chilling her skin, and, despite the glass panes that protected the candle within the lantern, snuffing out its flame.

Despite the black gloom that had shadowed the far corners of the front sitting room with only the tallow candle to illuminate its contents, it took several seconds for Isabella's pupils to dilate with the sudden lack of light. Those seconds felt like an eternity, her breath panting from her lungs with fear, certain a ghostly specter was soon going to loom in the doorway.

As her eyes adjusted, Isabella's breath began to ease as she saw nothing in the room had shifted, her grandmother's form quiet and bowed in the chair, uncanny eyes closed against the darkness. "_Grandmére_?" Isabella whispered, eyes wide, the race of her heartbeat only beginning to slow as her gaze darted around the room once more to ensure no shrouded corpse had suddenly appeared.

But Marie did not stir, and Isabella found her attention abruptly drawn from the silent figure by the soft tap of rain drops against the leaded glass panes of the sitting room windows. Her gaze grew wide as the patter rapidly grew, soon becoming an incessant thunder; she could not quite comprehend that the weather had shifted so suddenly from the clear skies of only a few hours before. Her breath quickened once again, though she reminded herself that she had nothing to fear, that the tapping and scratching she heard was simply the surrounding tree branches against the cottage roof, the wind churned into a fury beyond the stone walls.

Nonetheless, Isabella was nearly set to rise, fear and confusion swirling in her stomach and giving her the sense that the floor was set to capsize beneath her feet. She wasn't certain what she intended to do—to shake her grandmother from her stupor, to flee from the dark room and find her former nursemaid abovestairs, to duck into the black of night and shower of rainfall in an effort to escape the truth of what this torrent was bringing. She simply knew she could no longer be still.

Only Marie was on her feet first, her figure surprisingly erect, her visage a blank mask as she turned on unerring feet to the sitting room door. Isabella's mouth gaped, watching with disbelief, unable to make sense of what was happening—but slowly realizing she would not be present to witness whatever Marie intended to do should she remain where she was. Quickly, Isabella sprang to her feet, hurrying to follow in the older woman's wake.

She bit back questions as she turned into the corridor and saw Marie was already on the stairs, climbing to the upper floors. Isabella lifted her skirts, quickening her pace, a dart of worry furrowing her brow as she wondered whether Sheil was already abed, or would soon appear on the landing marveling at the commotion of the storm outside.

But the landing remained empty, and Isabella turned her gaze from Sheil's closed door to see Marie was at the threshold of her own bedchamber, her hand sure on the knob as she twisted it and entered.

Isabella gathered her skirts in her hands before hurrying up the remaining steps, eyes wide as she realized she was panting with breathlessness. She hesitated at the open door, marveling that only hours before she had been within this very room full of anticipation and nervousness for the assembly ball in Penzance. It seemed like a very long time ago now, those memories already blurred and golden in her mind, this new present her only reality.

Sucking in a breath for courage, Isabella crossed the threshold, uncertain of what she would find inside.

Her eyes took only a moment to make out Marie's figure, still as a statue next to the bed, white head bowed. "_Grandmére_?" Isabella whispered, desperate to make sense of what was happening.

To her relief, Marie lifted her head and her countenance was returned to the canny, impatient expression she had worn throughout the majority of their conversation belowstairs. Her brow was faintly furrowed, her mismatched eyes narrow as she glanced back to the floor. "I sense it there—but you must fetch it. If I kneel, I will not be able to rise again."

Isabella's own brow furrowed with confusion though she moved to do as her grandmother bid, stepping forward and stooping to the floorboards. There had always been a spot next to her bed that creaked complainingly when trod upon; Isabella had avoided it the night she'd felt the compulsion to duck out of doors, certain Sheil would have woken had she heard the tell-tale sound indicating her charge was awake and about.

Marie stepped aside, her expression easing into knowing calm as Isabella pried at the board with her uninjured hand. It was only as she fluttered her bandaged hand within the gap that Isabella realized doubt still lived in her heart—that, somehow, she had not accepted the truth of what Marie had traveled so far to tell her. For her lips parted in surprise as her fingertips grasped the delicate edges of a piece of paper, dusty and gritty with how long it had lain beneath the boards. As she carefully eased the epistle from beneath its hiding place and brought it close to her gaze in the gloom of the room, she saw it was a letter, folded into thirds and sealed shut. Despite the passage of years, there was no mistaking the fine, swirling hand that marked the outer edge of the letter, nor the name written by that hand.

_Isabella_.

She could not help staggering to the bed, her free hand at her lips as tears blurred her gaze. Then, eagerly, she slid a finger nail along the seal and unfolded the sheet, her gaze hungry for the words of the woman who had raised her.

_My daughter,_

_Words of apology seem inadequate, my darling girl. What's more, I am not entirely certain, even in this moment, that my writing them would be sincere. For I sought to spare you, Isabella. From the curiosity and from the gossip and from the speculation. From the knowledge you yourself would hold that the curiosity and gossip and speculation are warranted, and from the certainty that you are never fully a part of the life around you._

_The gifts are not aptly named. For while they are a gift, they are also, like any power, a burden, too. To be so sensitive to things that cannot be fully explained, to be the subject of scrutiny, to watch in helplessness as your abilities fail a child too ill to benefit from your efforts—these are all burdens. To know your husband is gone before his major has touched quill to paper—how can this be a gift?_

_So I sought to spare you, however impossible a task. For I suspect it is impossible, Isabella. I suspect, though you have not inherited my gaze, you have inherited much else. But perhaps, even then, you will not suffer the isolation your mother suffered. Perhaps you will find a path that will not force you to conceal the truth from the one you love most._

_Know, though, whatever the path, I love you, and in my love for you, sought to spare you what I suffered._

_Be safe, my daughter. And what's more, be happy._

_Maman_

Isabella did not first realize Marie's hand was on her shoulder until she began to shake with the force of her tears, and the older woman's grip grew firm, trying to steady her. Though the words in Renée's letter were echoing in her head, Isabella somehow made out the soothing words her grandmother was speaking. "Shh, _ma fille_. You are very like her, you know, for all of your coloring being that of your father."

Isabella tried to shake her head, tried to find the words to deny the thing that Sheil had always claimed to be true; there had never been a time when she could see any resemblance between the light, fey woman who had been her mother and herself. But Marie's voice grew gruff and insistent. "Perhaps you lack her curls and the shape of her face, but I can see her quickness in your gaze, and her insouciance in how your lips twitch when you think of something that amuses you." Isabella's neck bowed, hiding her face in her hands, unable to stop the tears which fell in earnest again.

"Ah, child, take heart," Marie murmured, her strong hand squeezing Isabella's shoulder once again. "Take heart, _ma fille_." She sighed deeply, a weary sound. "Though I cannot stay to do what Renée should have done," she paused. "You are not alone." Isabella tried to nod though her eyes were still damp, knowing she should take courage in what her grandmother said as she wiped at the tears staining her cheeks. She had Sheil. Though she chafed beneath the former nursemaid's care, Isabella knew Sheil's concern for her came from genuine love and affection.

Only, Marie was shaking her white head, her gaze both knowing and sad as she spoke. "You mistake my meaning, _ma fille_, though the servant loves you like her own." When she shook her head again, the motion was rueful. "The gentleman with black eyes—he hides much but you need not fear him."

Isabella's head rose, her eyes wide and dry with disbelief. But Marie merely regarded her calmly, as though nothing were amiss in her mentioning a man Isabella knew the older woman could not have possibly met, nor expressing her trust in his character.

Marie continued, undeterred by Isabella's shocked expression. "If you remember this, all will be well."


	10. Going Away

_Thank you so much for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>Well, said she, I never knew the like of thee. But this sad preparation for going away (for now I see you are quite in earnest) is what I know not how to get over.<em>

_Pamela: or, Virtue Rewarded  
><em>_Samuel Richardson_

**ten**

When Isabella awoke to the glow of sun shining through the windows and the chirping of songbirds, her first emotion was one of relief. Her brow smoothed as she opened her eyes, a smile tilting her lips at the fantastic dream that still stained the edges of her consciousness. She closed her eyes briefly as she shook her head against the softness of her pillow, tendrils of conversation echoing in her mind—such fancies, such absurdities! An uncomfortable chuckle found its way to her lips as she wondered at her state of mind, that she could have conjured up such a fantasy.

Her thoughts turned to her surroundings as she pushed away the nonsense of her dream…but confusion slowly began to take hold; she saw that the chamber was far too bright for morning, her brow furrowing as she wondered that the drapes had not been fully drawn into place the prior night. And as she stirred beneath the covers, she realized she still wore her stays, her flesh uncomfortably confined beneath the boned lacings. Her lips parted, thinking that this part of her recollection must be true—that Sheil had retired before her, leaving Isabella to undress herself. And she had been too exhausted to disrobe, falling into bed in her altered polonaise.

Isabella's hands plucked at the rich fabric as she rose from the pillows, her gaze rueful as she saw the rumpled state of the silk—before the events of the assembly ball returned.

…_she is as fair as I recall, and much improved with a new gown._

Her gaze grew sad and regretful before her lids sank shut, as if she could block out the memories by blocking out the sight of the striped gown that had drawn the comment. But a huff of anger soon burst past her lips as she quickly scrambled off the bed, her hands rising to tug at the pins in her tangled hair as her gaze darted around the room, seeking distraction in determining all she needed to do to set her bedchamber to rights. Her discarded slippers were near the clothes press, her cloak was draped over the dainty chair before the vanity—and upon the vanity's surface, a sheet of dingy paper was folded into thirds.

Her hands fell from her hair, her gaze failing to see the stunned reflection in the looking glass as she stumbled to the vanity. She was blind to the oval face puffy with sleep and tears, the locks of chestnut hair partially cascading over one shoulder, and the wrinkled fabric of her gown; all of her attention was fixed on the piece of paper. She dropped the few pins she'd tugged from her hair to the vanity surface, her fingers reluctantly drifting to the letter, the motion hesitant and dazed.

For it had not been a dream.

Her gaze darted to the door as she heard the clatter of pots and pans belowstairs, suddenly filled with the desire to speak to the woman who had raised her mother, longing to understand so much that still remained unclear. Though she had managed to override Sheil's protective impulses last night, Isabella did not think she could rush belowstairs in her gown from the night before without raising her companion's ire. Quickly, she stripped off her garments and used the water from the pitcher to wash, before donning a fresh walking gown in white muslin. She straightened her hair as best she could before shoving her feet into slippers and hurrying from the room.

Only, she was not to receive satisfaction for her curiosity, the questions burgeoning on her lips swiftly forgotten upon finding her grandmother nearly finished with the breakfast Sheil and Mrs. Hammet had prepared. The two women had clearly rifled through the larder to treat this unexpected guest, a pan of kippers cooling on the sideboard along with a bowl of bread rolls, a side of bacon that had been fried with turnips and potatoes from the garden, and dried fruit that Isabella knew Sheil hoarded as if it were gold.

But Isabella barely noted the array of food, her mouth gaping with confusion and dismay as she saw Marie was nearly set to rise from her chair, her cloak and a valise resting on the floor nearby. The older woman spoke before Isabella could, responding to her granddaughter's pale, aggrieved expression with brisk pragmatism. "I must be on my way. It was a selfish indulgence to stray so far from my journey and come here. I have already lost a good deal of time."

"But—"

Marie waved a hand as she rose to her feet and bent to retrieve her cloak. "You have no need of me, child." Her gaze was not unkind as she straightened to face Isabella, lips wryly twisting as she shrugged into the cloak. "Renée may have neglected your training, but you are self-sufficient in every other way." Her uncanny eyes drifted away, a hint of regret entering her tone, "And as you are hesitant to learn the arts, what use is an old woman with other business to attend to?"

Isabella shook her head, certain it could not be possible that her grandmother would depart after having only just arrived. Marie's last words echoed in her mind, and so it was this on which she seized, managing to form a question. "What business?"

Marie's gaze grew grim, her mouth hardening into a thin line. "There are threats I do not yet comprehend." Isabella's brown eyes grew wide, unwittingly rearing back as she thought how similar this sounded to Mr. Maçon's vague references to dangers she could not believe to be true. Sensing Isabella's reaction, Marie lifted a hand, squeezing her shoulder with a firm grip. "Do not be alarmed." She turned away, bowing slowly to grasp the handles of her valise. "Remember what I told you before."

"But _Grandmére_," Isabella could not help protesting, finally absorbing that her grandmother was not in jest—that she truly meant to take her leave the very morning after her arrival. "Is it so urgent? Can you not stay one more night?" Desperation tinged her tone as she thought of all the questions that had risen to her lips upon realizing her dream was reality, eager to understand all that had passed the prior night—and all that her grandmother had intimated with her words and knowledge. For how many generations had her mother's family carried these gifts? How did the gifts vary from person to person? What did training entail? Had the Aecenbotme's ever suffered scrutiny for their gifts? And how had they responded to this attention?

But Marie was shaking her head, her expression fixed. "Fret not, Isabella. Some of your questions," she nodded towards the door and presumably to the kitchen beyond, where Sheil and Mrs. Hammet were likely enjoying a cup of tea after laboring over breakfast. "Your companion will know." One lid briefly sank shut over her faded blue eye, a hoarse chuckle on her lips. "Though she may not realize she knows." Then, more firmly, "I have already lost a great deal of time. That must be my primary concern, however much I may wish to pass here with you." Her gaze rose to the walls around them, the briefest wistfulness passing over her features before grim determination set in again. "Renée was happy here, as are you." She bowed her head before turning to the door. "That must be enough for me."

Isabella choked back her protests as she followed Marie to the door, blinking away angry tears as she saw Mr. Connor was already waiting at the gate in his wagon. Marie paused only once more, lifting a wrinkled hand to briefly touch Isabella's cheek, regret darting across her gaze, before she turned and marched towards the wagon on unhesitating feet.

Isabella longed to go after her, to tug on her cloak and beg her to stay one more day, but she somehow knew it would be of no use. Only after the wagon had turned the corner and disappeared from sight did she close the front door and return to the dining room, her chest hollow with disbelief.

She had no appetite for the food cooling on the sideboard, her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze narrow and inexpressibly disappointed as she regarded the meal Sheil and Mrs. Hammet had worked so hard to prepare. She was more than willing to brave Sheil's ire in refusing to eat, her lips set in a thin line, her jaw tight as she fought tears of frustration and confusion.

She was still hovering mutinously over the sideboard when she heard footfalls behind her and swiftly turned, skirts swirling, preparing to do battle with her former nursemaid. But her anger subsided into confusion as she saw Sheil's weary, sad face beneath the ruffled edge of her mob cab, her cheeks slightly reddened by the warmth of the kitchen fire. "Has she gone, then?"

Though Isabella had thought to deliver the words with justifiable outrage when she first heard her companion approach, her voice only managed to sound cold and aloof when she spoke in response. "Isn't that what you wished?" She knew someone must have sent for Mr. Connor and it seemed all too appropriate to lay the blame at Sheil's feet.

Sheil's brow briefly furrowed before she shuffled forward and reached for the nearest dining room chair, dragged it away from the table, and sank into it with a tired sigh. Several seconds passed before she spoke. "For the first year after your father brought Miss Renée back," she inhaled, "I woke every day thinking I'd have to comfort the poor boy of a broken heart—that she'd come to her senses and leave this dull place as soon as the lustre of first love faded." She shook her head, her gaze growing distant with memory. "But she stayed. She stayed even after he left, again and again, with only his mother and me for company for months at a time. She stayed when no one could have faulted her for leaving."

Sheil's gaze cleared, her head lifting to regard Isabella with a sad, steady stare. "Your grandmother has no such ties to this place. I knew when I saw her last night, still wearing her cloak, that she wasn't going to stay long." Sheil shook her head again, "But if ye don't aim to be angry with her, ye can be angry with the one who's still here to bear the brunt of it."

Any lingering frustration Isabella might have felt died at these words, her shoulders sagging as her arms fell to her sides. She was unable to resist crossing to Sheil's seated figure, bending to embrace the older woman's plump frame. "'Twas not fair, Sheil," she whispered. "Please forgive me."

Sheil's arms briefly rose to hold her charge close. "Ain't nothing to forgive, child," she gruffly replied. As Isabella straightened, the older woman pretended a rapt fascination with her hands. "Did your grandmother say why she had to go?"

Isabella's lips quirked, realizing Sheil was likely dying of curiosity. "No." She saw no use in hinting at the vague danger her grandmother had mentioned. "Only that she had business to attend to, and was already late."

Sheil's nose wrinkled as she looked up, her disappointment apparent. "Ah, so," she sighed. "I might as well start clearing these breakfast things away." She peered at Isabella. "Have ye eaten your fill?"

Isabella shook her head, quickly crossing back to the sideboard before Sheil could chide her. "Not as of yet. Will you sit with me while I eat?"

"But of course, child."

Her mood somewhat lightened, Isabella filled her plate with kippers and bacon and the largest roll in the bowl; as she took a seat at the dining table across from Sheil, she thought over what her grandmother had said. Perhaps Sheil did know more than she realized.

Without hesitation, she began peppering her former nursemaid with questions, somehow certain the older woman wouldn't question her curiosity in the wake of such unexpected circumstances. "Why did you think my mother would not stay?"

Sheil shifted in her chair, her gaze drifting to her wrinkled hands as she visibly gathered her thoughts. "Your mother was of such a different nature than any of the Cornish folk I knew," she began, brow furrowed. "In the beginning, I think we all attributed it to her being a foreigner. But your mother," Sheil shook her head. "Your mother was different. A creature apart."

Isabella nodded. "But she never intimated any desire to leave Mousehole."

Sheil shook her head. "Oh, no. She was devoted to your father from the beginning. Like children, they were, laughing and smitten."

Isabella smiled before the expression faltered. "As if my father was enchanted."

Sheil's gaze rose, her brows low over faded blue eyes. "Aye, but your mother was, too. Lovesick for him, she was, and nothing she could do for it—for all of her skills with herbs and such."

It was the perfect segue. "Did she ever tell you how she came to learn all she did?"

Sheil shrugged. "I expect it was from her mother—or grandmother. Like any girl learns to cook and tend a garden—at her mother's knee."

Isabella nodded again, her gaze returning to her plate as she thought over everything her grandmother had shared. Doubts still lingered, like shadows that never quite clear from corners even on the brightest of days. What more did Sheil know? Did she suspect that what had set Renée apart wasn't simply her character or disposition, but something more, something undefinable?

It was as if Sheil read her mind, her voice soft and thoughtful as she spoke without the prompting of a question. "Your mother was gifted." Isabella bit her lip hard, all of her concentration focused on failing to react to these uncanny words. Sheil's gaze drifted to the window, failing to see Isabella's pale cheeks, or how deeply her teeth were digging into her bottom lip. "Her skill with herbs was unlike anything I'd seen—even the midwife in Lamorna could not bring the relief your mother did." She snorted. "Never mind the silly love spells and curses she claimed she could lift." Her gaze turned from the window, her lips curling with amusement. "Ye know Mrs. Berty went to Old Woman Boswell for a charm when we were both—oh, young!" She laughed. "Younger than ye are now."

Isabella couldn't help her own smile in response to Sheil's good humor. "A charm to what purpose?"

"For Mr. Berty!" Sheil burst out laughing. "She can barely pay him any mind now, but at the time she was addled by him. And so we went, walking all the way to Old Woman Boswell's cottage in Perranuthnoe, the thatched roof nearly caved in, everything smelling of mold." Her nose wrinkled. "Just so Mrs. Berty could pay four pence for a scrap of parchment with a jumble of nonsense words on it." Her eyes widened as she remembered an additional detail, "And a sachet of herbs that was mostly lavender from what I could tell." She shook her head, her lips curving into a smile again. "Though of course Mrs. Berty claims the spell did its work as she got her proposal six weeks later."

Isabella could not help softly interjecting, striving to keep her tone as even as possible, "But you take no stock in such things."

Sheil did not immediately respond, cocking her head as her gaze again grew thoughtful. "There is much mystery in this world, Isabella." Her eyes narrowed though her gaze seemed far away, thinking of other times and places. "Your mother often said the senses only see and know so much." A smile flit across her lips but her gaze remained trained on the window, where the sun continued to shine down upon the muddy lane beyond the gate. "Of course, I often got the sense she was trying to put me off all she could see and know." Her gaze cleared as she shook her head. "Do you remember how she could tell a storm was coming," she inclined her head to the window, "even if it was bright as a summer day?"

Isabella nodded, blinking back unexpected tears at the memories that accompanied the question. "The fishermen make such predictions, too," she weakly offered as her eyes fell to her plate. One lone kipper remained, its blackened eye blankly returning her stare.

"Aye, but they ain't right every time," Sheil muttered.

"And the garden," Isabella added, her own gaze now turning to the window, her voice wistful. "It was if the flowers grew just to make her happy."

"Aye," Sheil's voice was equally sad as she agreed. Isabella did not realize until that moment how much they both missed Renée, and how much Marie's unexpected visit had reminded them of that fact.

"I think I'll go there now," Isabella quietly exhaled.

Sheil simply nodded. "Don't worry your head about these things," she inclined her head to the sideboard. "Mrs. Hammet and I will clean up."

Isabella rose, deep in thought, and retreated through the house to the garden. She cast her eyes to the ground as she stepped through the door, for the sun had only brightened since her confused awakening less than an hour before. The flowers and herbs were so drowned in light, they first appeared colorless until her eyes adjusted, wandering along the borders of the beds until she reached the farthest corner where spears of foxglove towered as high as her shoulders.

Isabella paused before the copse of tall flowers, slightly shaded by an elm that grew just beyond the garden fence. She tilted her head as she reached out a hand to touch the first purple-blue buds, lost in memories. She could recall frolicking in this far corner as a child, far beyond the view of the kitchen door where Sheil or her mother could see her and chide her for foregoing her bonnet, or getting the hem of her gown dirty. A small smile danced over her lips as she thought of how she had plucked these blooms, much to her mother's chagrin, fitting the bell-shaped petals over her fingers and pretending each digit was a lady adorned by a stylish hat.

"_Fille coquin_!" Renée had exclaimed. Then, laughing, she had drawn her daughter close to her side and reached for the foxglove herself, her touch gentle as she fingered one of the plump leaves. "If ever your heart speeds," she had whispered softly, "_la digitale_ will slow the beat."

Isabella could nearly smell the faint scent of rosewater that had accompanied her mother through the cottage, her bright laughter ringing from the study where she read Charles' letters, or from the kitchen, where she teased Sheil for her grumbling.

Her brow furrowed, Isabella glanced down to the mossy ground, then tentatively sank to the earth, her brow smoothing as she found it was dry given the warmth of the morning sun. She straightened her skirts over her legs then gazed up at the pale indigo trumpets of the foxglove shrubs before her…but the colors blurred before her eyes, her mind elsewhere, her expression troubled. For she felt more lost than perhaps the day her mother had died, unable to make sense of her grandmother's sudden appearance and equally abrupt departure—and unable to shake the notion that everything Marie had said wasn't a wild fancy.

A dart of movement caught her eye, distracting her from her pensive state. It was a wren, its small brown body nearly invisible in the shadow of the foxgloves. It was unmoving but for the turn and bob of its head, black eyes shining and bright as it regarded Isabella with cautious curiosity. It was close enough that she could see the pulse of its plump feathered body with each breath it took.

Without thinking, Isabella leaned forward, her gaze steady, her expression calm. She forced herself not to start when the wren readily hopped towards her in response, as if accepting this gesture of interest. Slowly, she lifted her hand from her lap, lips parting ever so slightly as she willed her heart not to race.

The wren chirped as if asking a question, tilting its head as it regarded her with a wary gaze. Isabella waited patiently, her hand growing warm where it was exposed to the sunlight, fixed in mid-air. The wren hopped closer, then, with a faint chitter, alighted on her pale hand.

She would not have known its weight rested on her fingers but for the scaly texture of its feet. She sensed it was not gripping as tightly as it was able, careful to keep from piercing her skin with its claws, black eyes bright and somehow delighted as it regarded her with its shining gaze. Her own smile was more hesitant. For while she knew she should be stunned and startled by such an unlikely occurrence, a wild bird coming to rest on her fingertip without the bait of bread or fruit, she felt no such thing.

"You might cause me to believe in pixies, Miss Swan." The low voice was amused and all too familiar, but Isabella could not help starting in response, quickly turning her head to find Mr. Maçon leaning against the wrought iron fence in the shade of the elm tree, his hat in his gloved hands.

Her gaze darted back to her hand, unsurprised to find the wren had taken flight at her sudden movement. She dropped her hand back to her lap and reluctantly returned her gaze to Mr. Maçon's smiling countenance. She knew her cheeks had grown pink with heat, embarrassed to be caught enchanting the animals around her yet again…but she could not forget Marie's words as she regarded him with a shy gaze. For while he had more cause than many to wonder at her abilities, he had yet to shun her or fear her in any way. If anything, he seemed curious about everything he'd observed. Even now, his black eyes were watchful though his smile was easy and amused, deliberately silent as he awaited her response.

Isabella's gaze returned to her lap, her voice quiet as she spoke, "Piskeys." She glanced up and saw his expression had turned quizzical. "They are called piskeys here in Cornwall." She plucked at the white muslin beneath her hands, uncertain why she felt as if she were revealing her soul in speaking of this children's fairy tale. "There are stones, the Mên-an-Tol, far north of here." She had gone once when her father was home on furlough, hanging from his hand as he explained the local folklore that accompanied the site. She had gazed at the circular stones in fascination, too frightened by his words to venture close despite his reassurances that the local farmers and fisherman all believed the stones were benevolent in their sorcery. "When a babe has suffered some enchantment, likely caused by the piskeys," her mouth quirked, "the Mên-an-Tol can dispell the curse."

Mr. Maçon was silent for some time and Isabella's gaze finally rose from her lap, curious as to his response. His countenance was one of contemplation, black eyes slightly narrowed, chin lifted as he regarded her from beneath hooded lids.

"Enchantment," he finally murmured. Isabella felt her heart thump more powerfully against her ribs, though she was uncertain why she should be surprised that he would focus on this element of her explanation. His voice was silky as he continued. "An apt choice of words."

Isabella could not help her gaze again returning to her hands, fingers twisting, her cheeks aflame with confusion and an emotion she could not identify.

"But enchantment implies will," Mr. Maçon went on, his voice thoughtful. Isabella's gaze flew from her hands, captured by his words. She saw his own gaze had drifted away, looking towards the cottage, his expression pensive. "A will to bring others under your sway."

Isabella bit her lip, wildly thinking he already knew too much. But she could not bear to remain silent, clinging to the hope that her grandmother had known what she spoke of.

"I have no such will," she whispered, the words the softest exhale, so quiet she wasn't certain he would heed them.

But his dark head whipped around, black eyes intent as he regarded her with undisguised interest. He was silent for some time, the only sound the whisper of the breeze in the trees above. When he finally replied, his voice was equally soft. "I do see this is so." He tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smile dancing over his lips. "Which means I cannot blame you for my fascination."

Isabella's breath caught in her throat but he was speaking again and it took her several seconds to realize he was changing the subject, his expression blithe, affecting a lack of concern.

"You did not stay to supper last night."

Isabella shook her head, having almost forgotten entirely the events at the assembly ball. She tried to think of a response as her gaze searched the ground; when the silence grew awkward, she began to rise, hoping the motion of climbing to her feet would appear to be enough reason for her delay in answering—rather than her need to think of an excuse. As she pretended to focus on brushing at her skirts and slowly crossed to the fence, she lightly replied, "I suffered a headache and could not stay." It was only partially a lie. There was no need for him to know about the conversation she'd overheard; she would be mortified to share the particulars and he would likely only be amused at her embarrassment.

But he would not be deterred by her diversion, nor the partial truth of her explanation. "Forsooth, Miss Swan," his voice was equally light but there was a chiding undercurrent to the words, "I would prefer no answer to a falsehood."

She knew by the growing heat in her face that her cheeks were likely red as roses, and her gaze fell, fixing on her hands, on the rusted wrought iron between them, on anything but the gentle accusation in his expression. But what could she say?

Before she could think of another excuse, or some version of the truth that she could bear to tell, he was speaking again. "Are you certain it was not my company you were avoiding?"

Isabella's gaze flew to his face for though she thought the question must be in jest, there was nothing droll in his tone, the words spoken with sincere curiosity. "No! Never!" she exclaimed before she could think, seeking to reassure him.

Too late, she realized she had now impulsively admitted her own partiality, her cheeks flaming brighter than before as she ducked her head, wishing with all her might that whatever gifts she possessed would allow the earth to swallow her whole.

"How delightful to hear." The words were a quiet purr, and she could not bring herself to raise her gaze and meet his eyes, mortified at her unwitting revelation. But his tone abruptly shifted to one of faint wonderment as he added, "I did not know I had powers of enchantment as well."

Isabella concentrated on breathing, on the motion of air moving past her lips, on anything but the hope and anticipation fluttering beneath her breastbone, alive and undeniable. Could it be that the two gossiping girls at the assembly ball were correct in their estimation? Could it be that her reduced circumstances mattered naught to him, for his own wealth made it possible for him to follow where his interest led?

"I am to depart soon." His shift in subject matter was the only thing that could induce her to lift her gaze again, distracted from her own wonder and speculation at the regret in his voice. It was evident in his expression as well, his brow faintly furrowed, black eyes apologetic.

"It cannot be helped," he quickly added in response to what she knew must be her own expression of dismay. She sought equanimity, if only externally, forcing her brow to smooth, closing lips that had parted with surprise, and clasping her hands tightly before her.

"I see." She found her speculations shifting as abruptly as his change in topic, quickly surmising that he must be returning to London or Brighton—or some sophisticated place that suited his circumstances far better than Mousehole possibly could. Had she ever learned from whence he'd come, beyond the town of his birth? But what did it matter for how could she have expected him to remain in provincial Cornwall for long? Sheil's words echoed in her head. _…t__hat she'd come to her senses and leave this dull place as soon as the lustre of first love faded._

She did not know that, despite her efforts, her rapid turn of thought was evident in the faint distress in her countenance, cheeks pale, brown eyes wide and fearful. "The thing I am seeking," Mr. Maçon leaned forward, forearms braced upon the fence, endeavoring to explain. "I must look further afield." She sensed he wished to offer further explanation but could tell her no more, his lips tightly sealed.

"I see," she finally whispered, returning her gaze to her feet. She knew she should be pleased he was no longer supporting the story of his lost mount, but she could not help the despair that was rising like a shadow within. His interest then could only be fleeting. But she was not mistaken—he had demonstrated interest, if only momentary. Could she take heart in that fact?

"So often," he began, his voice quiet and thoughtful. "So often have I been a feckless cad." Her gaze rose, recalling the other instance in which he'd claimed this to be true. She could not see how it was so, with his fine manners and polished demeanor…unless…She bit her lip again, a dart of almost physical pain piercing her breast. Unless he was seeking to admit he had toyed with her, pursuing her company when there was no honorable intent. Her heart thudded in her chest and she clasped her hands more tightly to still their trembling.

Her mind raced. Could she match his fine manners and accept his explanation with calm grace? Rather than stomping her foot and shouting abuse at him as she longed to do? She squared her shoulders, bracing herself for his apology.

But he was shaking his dark head, his own gaze cast to the ground, his shoulders rising and falling with a sigh. "But I cannot be so feckless with you." His eyes rose, so black the pupils were lost in the jet irises. "I could not bring myself to leave without giving you warning."

Isabella's brow furrowed as confusion returned; she felt much like a passenger within a coach flying at too great a pace over rough roads, tossed and buffeted within its rocking confines. She shook her head as she struggled to think of a response, unable to understand the direction of his conversation, the meaning of his words. Finally, recalling her endeavor to maintain manners as well as his own, she stuttered, "I—I thank you." Then, attempting to understand but striving to keep all hope from her tone, she asked, "You mean to return?"

His expression shifted, something shadowed and unnameable crossing his pale features. Mr. Maçon paused only a moment before speaking. "I could not stay away."


	11. Bring with a Spell

_Thank you for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>The Tabhaisver, or Seer, that corresponds with this kind of Familiars, can bring them with a Spel to appear to himselfe or others when he pleases, as readily as Endor Witch to those of her Kind.<em>

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies, Robert Kirk_

**eleven**

Mr. Maçon had concluded his call shortly thereafter. Isabella could not help the lightness in her step as she walked with him to the front gate, smiling as she saw Mr. Moorland's horse tethered to the post. It was only after he was gone that she realized she had not enquired as to how long he expected to be away.

It mattered very little, however, for the moment he was gone, his mounted figure turning the corner to continue north along the Coast Path, she felt distinctly the knowledge of his absence. She chided herself for it was not as if she had seen him with any regularity since their first unexpected encounter on the road to Mousehole. As she forced herself to attend to an embroidery panel she had neglected for weeks, she thought back, counting exactly how many times they had conversed.

As she catalogued the occasions, she told herself it was not logical that she should feel any profound sense of loss at his absence. She thought, too, of how their interactions had sometimes been marked by tension, that she had often been unable to understand his motives in speaking to her, or the reasoning behind his inquiries. And what of the instance in which he'd fled her presence? But then, he'd also sought her out for the first dance of the assembly ball, and had now called twice at the cottage…

"Ouch!" Distracted by her thoughts, Isabella had accidentally pierced her skin with the embroidery needle, watching with a disgruntled expression as a pinpoint of blood appeared at the tip of her finger. "Blast it…" she murmured, vowing to put the troublesome Mr. Maçon from her mind.

She succeeded for a time, but then eventually found herself lost in memories of the prior night and the equally confusing departure of her grandmother that morning. She could not deny her astonishment at Marie's sudden appearance, nor her disappointment that the older woman was unwilling to stay longer. She still felt such ignorance about her past, and wished that she could have had time to learn more from her grandmother and gain a better understanding of her abilities. Or, for that matter, a solid belief in those abilities. It was still so difficult to fathom that some inherent gift could be the cause behind all of the unusual memories she recalled of her mother, as well as the reason for all the unlikely occurrences in her own life.

Embroidery was no distraction from these thoughts. Neither was mending, nor playing pianoforte with her stiff but healed hand, nor tending the garden. As time passed, she found it more difficult to cling to any shred of denial about everything she'd learned from her grandmother for, even without training, it took very little exertion to see the results of her talents.

She had only to discover the state of relaxed concentration, at ease but observant, to find that the creatures that flitted through the garden saw her as one of their own. From tiny wrens to glossy starlings, she was a beacon for the wild birds who made the trees beyond the garden their home. Even the darting bumble bees that had begun to haunt the flowers blooming behind the cottage seemed to linger in her presence, circling about her head until she laughed with dizziness.

Of course, she had to be cautious in these experiments, ensuring Sheil and Mrs. Hammet were either pre-occupied inside, or gone to church or the village market. She always listened carefully for any approaching riders or carriages, but felt a degree of confidence in her certainty that no one was coming—a certainty that was both reassuring, leaving her without fear of discovery, but also disappointing. For a day did not pass in which she did not wonder whether Mr. Maçon would soon return.

It was only after her quiet success in these endeavors that she began to ponder the other things her grandmother had shared, and contemplated how to determine whether any of it would hold true. What if, in trying to summon Sheil, or Mr. Connor, or Mrs. Hammet, she succeeded in raising the suspicion that she was truly as unusual as her mother had been? What might their questions be? How could she answer?

But, after an interminable day in which she considered and rejected the idea repeatedly, she finally determined she would take the risk. There were several reasons she arrived at this decision while lying restless in bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness of her bedchamber and wishing she could cease thinking about Mr. Maçon. The first reason was that she had no idea whether attempting to summon anyone would work. Why waste time fretting about mere possibilities? Perhaps her grandmother had been correct about some of her gifts, but the imperfect memory of her rescue by Mr. Hammet could hardly be solid evidence that she was special in other ways.

Isabella turned on her side and thumped her pillow, frustrated that she was still unable to sleep, the sliver of moon high in the sky beyond her window. As she laid her head down, she exhaled as she thought of the second reason, the certainty of which was unfailing. For she knew that Sheil, who felt such undisguised loyalty for the Swan family, would not bat an eye at the suspicion that her charge held some of the same unusual traits as her fey mother, and would certainly not betray the confidence in which she'd been kept as servant to the Swans for generations.

It was not a factor Isabella felt comfortable exploiting, her brow set with a frown as she finally drifted into a restless sleep. Despite her grumblings, and lectures, and frequent remonstrances with a charge she saw as too willful and willing to forego social niceties, Sheil was as near to a mother as Isabella could know. She did not want to take advantage of the older woman's affection for her.

And so it was that she hesitated in the front sitting room the following day, hands twisting before her, lip caught between her teeth. She avoided the anxious gaze in the mirror hanging above the empty grate of the fireplace, knowing that if she saw her own uncertain eyes, she would not be able to follow through with her experiment.

Isabella turned where she stood, the muslin of her skirts swirling about her legs, struggling to think how to act, what to do. If Sheil were to come to the front sitting room unbidden, could she be certain her former nursemaid wasn't simply checking in as she was wont to do?

Flinging her hands to her sides, Isabella determined she must attempt to call Sheil from another area of the house, from a place where she would not think to normally find her charge. Isabella gnawed her lip, unwilling to make her companion climb the stairs unnecessarily, but determining the dining room was too near to be any different than the front sitting room.

Finally, with a huff of exasperation at her own indecision, she hurried from the room and quietly padded towards the back of the house. As she slowly opened the door to her father's study, careful lest the hinges creak in protest, she found herself hesitating on the threshold, inhaling the scent of leather and ink. She rarely lingered here, only venturing to this back corner of the cottage to fetch a book or write the occasional letter. Now, however, she drifted into the room without purpose, her gaze caught not by the books which usually were the reason for her presence, but by the pattern of the rug beneath her feet.

She had often lain on the worn wool as a child, tracing the swirls and lines with her finger tips, unwilling to leave her father's presence during the few instances in which he'd been home on furlough. And he'd indulged her, allowing her to remain in the study while he wrote his letters, or read, or examined the ledger Renée had kept in his absence. Isabella had been careful to hold her tongue, certain any chatter would justify her expulsion from the room. The pattern in the carpet had been a distraction, a background against which she could create a world, dreaming up stories in her head while endeavoring to remain as quiet as a mouse.

Sheil had once explained that Isabella's grandfather had purchased the rug from a London dealer when the Turkish style was all the rage, and that neighbors had called for weeks to see the intricate patterns and bright colors. The colors were faded now, and Isabella attempted to focus on the soft blend of fibers, the loops of wool still tightly bound though they had softened with time. She was seeking that state of studied concentration that she had found so easy to achieve while testing her abilities in the garden…and was frustrated to find herself distracted by the same conversations and memories that had preoccupied her this past week.

_For you are blessed, whatever Renée may have desired…_

Marie's voice echoed in her head unbidden, and Isabella could not help the faint furrow of her brow, striving to push the conversation from her thoughts.

_You mean to tell me your mother never schooled you on your birthright?_

But it was no use, the rasping voice tinged with outrage as clear as though Marie were present in the shadowed study at her side. Isabella huffed a sigh, fists curling at her sides, wondering why this recollection should come to her now—and yet unable to keep herself from following the trail of thought, silently justifying Renée's desire to keep her daughter ignorant. Isabella had read and reread the letter from beneath the floorboards a dozen times and more, relishing these last words, however somber and apologetic. But she could not help her faint frustration that she had not a better sense of what to do, of how to control whatever talents she possessed.

Her shoulders sagged as more of the evening in question echoed through her thoughts, realizing she was powerless to push away the memory of such a pivotal conversation.

_You are not alone…_

Her frown faded as her grandmother's words tripped through her thoughts, pealing again and again like a bird call. Her lips parted as it occurred to her…perhaps she was not meant to push these words and memories away. Perhaps this could be as easy as simply allowing herself to be still, relaxed, calm, allowing the animals nearby to come to her, to seek her out.

Isabella inhaled, eyes sinking shut, lips parting to allow the breath to ease from her lungs. Though she could feel the weight of her grandmother's hand on her shoulder, the damp of the tears on her cheeks as she finished reading the heartfelt letter hidden away for so long, her pulse was slow, her heart easy in her chest. She let the events of that night wash over her, calm behind the darkness of her lids, all of the uncertainty and disbelief of what she'd been told absent in this moment.

She thought of the following morning, and her disappointment at Marie's abrupt departure—disappointment that had briefly sought relief in lashing out at Sheil.

_Sheil._

The name reverberated in her head like a church bell, her breath still in her chest.

_Some of your questions your companion will know…_

And she had asked those questions, edging as close to the truth as she dared.

The former nursemaid's countenance, thoughtful and troubled, rose to Isabella's mind, distinct and vivid. She thought of the questions she still longed to ask, of all the knowledge that was lost to her, wondering if there was still more she might glean from Sheil's memories.

_Sheil._

Her chest throbbed almost painfully, her lips parting as her hand rose instinctively to her heart.

_Sheil_.

"What are ye doing in here, child? Ye have quite the stack of books already perched beside your bed as well as in the front sitting room."

Isabella nearly leapt from her skin, eyes flaring wide as she spun on her heels, her hands clenching into surprised fists. "Sheil!" Had it worked? She suddenly could not tell if she had spoken her companion's name aloud, eyes darting over the rich pattern of the carpet as she tried to think. Her heart raced, uncertain of her own recollection, trying to recall if her lips had moved to speak—if sound had passed from her throat.

"Are ye feeling well, child?" Sheil's expression was rapidly shifting from curiosity to concern, blue eyes wide as her brows lowered.

Isabella realized she must recover her senses if she wished to allay her companion's fear, shaking her head as she quickly dissembled, "Only lost in thought, Sheil." She forced a laugh past her lips as she spoke next, "And I forgot what I came here to retrieve the moment I passed through the door."

Sheil's concern visibly eased, a small smile turning up her lips. "Just ye wait until ye get to my age, dear. You'll forget whether you're coming or going."

Isabella's laugh was slightly more natural this time, but she was perhaps too quick on Sheil's heels as they both departed the study, for the older woman glanced back over her shoulder with suspicion in her gaze. By the time they reached the bright end of the corridor, however, the questions she'd been forming had faded, gaze distant as she raised her head. "I left Mrs. Hammet to chopping up all the vegetables herself. I'd best return to the kitchen."

"Of course, Sheil," Isabella nodded, smiling faintly as she turned back to the sitting room. But she could barely focus on her sewing or pianoforte, too distracted by what had just occurred—and the uncertainty that she hadn't imagined the entire thing.

She could not resist attempting the risky endeavor once more, later that night, after she and Sheil had both retired to their chambers. Though she lay abed, Isabella could not help the rapid beat of her heart, the shadows cast by the flickering candle on her bedside table ominous and somehow weighted. She pressed the pages of Defoe's book to her lips, the scent of paper and leather in her nostrils, eyes wide. For what if she should be successful? What then? How should she endeavor to conceal her skills?

Her eyes grew unfocused as her lips parted against the pages of the book, thinking of her mother's letter, hidden within a drawer of her vanity.

_From the knowledge you yourself would hold that the curiosity and gossip and speculation are warranted, and from the certainty that you are never fully a part of the life around you._

What had her mother suffered, keeping the truth from her husband, having no one in which to confide? Isabella's brown eyes sank shut as she thought of Mr. Maçon, of his dark, knowing gaze and wry, teasing words. Her heart stuttered to think his interest was born only of curiosity and nothing more…but, no, this could not be. Otherwise, why should he claim to be enchanted?

Isabella pressed the book to her lips with greater force, uncertain she'd otherwise be able to discern whether she had called Sheil's name aloud. For was she not as disturbed and confused as she had sometimes been as a child, startled awake by some half-remembered dream? Did this all not feel much like a dream, this fantastic new reality in which she was capable of things that should not be possible?

Her heart beat faster as she thought of what else might change. Would Sheil's affection for her alter? Would the Hammets grow superstitious and fearful? Would Mr. Raginnis cease to raise his hat when he galloped by?

The candle sputtered and the room grew black, barely lit by the weak flame.

_Oh, Sheil, will I lose you?_

Isabella did not realize her eyes had begun to well with tears until she heard the tap of a fist against her bedchamber door, her eyes flaring wide as she was startled from her thoughts. She tried to blink back the damp, knowing she would worry the only person who could be beyond the panels, likely shivering in the corridor. "Sheil?"

"Isa, are you alright? I thought I heard you call…"

But Isabella knew the book had been pressed to her lips until seconds ago, the pages warm with her breath. "I'm well, Sheil—do come in…"

The door creaked open and Sheil's round face peered through the crack, her gray hair in a plait over her shoulder. "Are you certain, child? You did sound distressed."

"I must have fallen into a doze," Isabella forced an embarrassed laugh, "and complained like a babe in my sleep." She smiled reassuringly as Sheil padded on bare feet further into the room. "I am sorry, Sheil."

"No need, child," Sheil waved a hand. "As long as all is well, I can be content."

"All is well," Isabella confirmed, nodding her head.

"Aye, so I see. Good-night, then, child."

"Good-night, Sheil."

But even after the door thudded shut and she had pinched out the candle, Isabella could not shake the unsettling feeling that her final reassurance was a lie.


	12. Wicked Will

_Thank you for reading. My posting schedule will hopefully be more regular now with some big events behind me._

* * *

><p><em>Well, these are strange things to me! I cannot account for them, for my share; but sure nobody will say, that these fine gentlemen have any tempter but their own wicked wills!<em>

_Pamela: or, Virtue Rewarded  
><em>_Samuel Richardson_

**twelve**

The feeling of dread, like an anchor in her stomach, had not dissipated by morning. Though the sky was low and gray with clouds, Isabella could not bring herself to remain indoors; the stubborn determination in her expression as she told Sheil she was going out for air was so convincing that her companion did not balk at the statement.

"Aye?" Sheil glanced up from the hearth, her gaze lingering only briefly on Isabella's mutinous expression. "Ye may want to take your cloak as it's grown cool since yesterday."

Isabella simply nodded before spinning on her heel and hurrying down the corridor to the front door. She knew she was being childish but couldn't bring herself to heed Sheil's suggestion, certain she would be walking so quickly that she'd only grow heated beneath the cloak's heavy wool folds. She glanced up to the sky as she quickly crossed to the road, flinging the gate shut behind her, skirts straining with the length of her strides.

Frustration mixed with the unease that seemed to have settled upon her like a fog, brow furrowed, hands balled into fists as she made her way down the lane to the Coast Path. It was frustration born of the knowledge that she had lost something, something irretrievable and rare. For had she not been contented before these sudden interruptions to her life? Though poor and reduced in circumstances, had she not been happy with her lot? She had needed nothing more than Sheil's protective company, the occasional call by the Eldritches and other acquaintances, and her daily tasks with which to be occupied.

At the crossroads she did not hesitate before turning south, certain that, like on the day she had surprised Miss Rosalie Hale, anyone she encountered would be startled by the passion written in her countenance. Isabella knew she would not be able to offer any explanation or blithe lie, that she was barely able to articulate the anger roiling within to herself. The ocean was but a distant roar in her ears as she continued on the wide, rough path, barely heeding the swells and pits formed by pounding storms, sheeps' hooves, and wagon wheels.

Her thoughts were filled with the image of Mr. Maçon, though it was not his words that echoed in her ears, drowning out the crash of the distant waves.

_He hides much but you need not fear him…_

A crack had formed in the contented life she led, crooked and black, impossible to disregard. For had she not been preoccupied by thoughts of him from the day they had met? Had she not failed to hide her interest when Mr. Eldritch inadvertently shared the news that the foreigner she never thought to see again had settled in Mousehole for reasons she still did not know?

_For you are blessed, whatever Renée may have desired…_

And hadn't his teasing led her to wonder at her abilities on a day very much like this? Isabella glanced to the sky but could feel no concern at seeing the clouds beginning to knit together, gray and ominous, blotting out the weak afternoon light. How could she fret over a coming storm, so common here on the coast, when her mind was filled with the knowledge that she truly was as different as her mother had apparently feared? That she must dissemble and hide from even those closest to her? To have the truth confirmed by the shocking arrival of her grandmother had widened that crack into a chasm she could not straddle, falling down into darkness and confusion.

The frown on her brow deepened as she thought of Mr. Maçon's most recent visit, unable to make any sense of his behavior, unwilling to read too far into his intentions. What if his only reason in paying her any heed was fascination with what he suspected she could do? She thought of the fair held every August in Penzance to celebrate St. Peter's Day, the press of crowds, farmers and fishermen dressed in their finest garb, vendors crying their wares, and hawkers joining the cacophony as they handed out flyers advertising curiosities and spectacles hidden behind stained tent flaps: tumbling and acrobatics, counting pigs, giants and midgets, rope-walkers and strong men. Sheil had always shaken her head at such entertainments, considering them far too déclassé for the daughter of a Swan. But now Isabella wondered if this was how Mr. Maçon perceived her, a curiosity, a spectacle, too strange to disregard.

Isabella was striding so swiftly, she had come to pant breathlessly against her stays, her brow damp, her eyes blind. For such thoughts were sobering, forcing her to realize how much she had begun to hope, how much she had come to wonder at another world, another future for herself. She thought it impossible that his intentions could be anything other than honorable but knowing what she did of her own circumstances, it still seemed so unlikely.

She shook her head, abruptly coming to a stop where the path cut most closely to the cliff edge, breathing heavily as she gazed out over the turbulent sea. In the distance she could see the bob and dip of small boats, fishermen who had likely cast out this morning with no notion of the rough weather coming.

_He hides much but you need not fear him…_

She did not feel the first drops of rain as she sank into the memory, lips parting with new understanding; at the time, she had been far too shocked to learn what her grandmother had known in speaking those uncanny words, indicating a knowledge of Mr. Maçon's existence as well as their acquaintance with one another, that it was not until this moment that she could absorb what Marie had meant.

Like Isabella, Marie knew that Mr. Maçon's reason for being in Cornwall was not the flimsy tale commonly told. And like Isabella, his dissembling was of no concern to the older woman, her tone one of absolute certainty when she had spoken the words. Isabella's eyes widened as she realized she had not needed her grandmother's foresight to see the truth of this—that she felt a strange, inherent trust in him though his sly manner and sometimes inexplicable behavior should have made her cautious indeed.

Isabella shook her head, inhaling deeply of the salty air. For was she not hiding something too? Something she suspected he was very close to understanding, though, unlike the local villagers, he did not appear to judge her for it? But her brow furrowed again, her teeth worrying her lip with renewed frustration. For while she could feel no concern at whatever mystery he concealed from her, she could not help feeling the inequity of their circumstances—for she had not hidden from him.

The rain had begun to fall with greater regularity, the drops large and heavy as they dampened the sleeves of her gown and soaked through the straw of her bonnet. But Isabella could not bring herself to turn away from the growing fury of the ocean, feeling an affinity with the roiling waves and pounding surf for it mimicked the turmoil and ire she felt within.

She thought of her mother, of beautiful Renée, her coy smile concealing more than Isabella could have possibly known, uncanny eyes bright and knowing. For all that she longed to deny it, Isabella knew some of her anger was borne of this secrecy, of the knowledge that her mother had hidden the truth for the entirety of her life, leaving her helpless against the gossip of the town.

A rumble of thunder boomed somewhere in the distance, far across the water, but she did not flinch or shiver at the noise.

While Marie had brought light to darkness, uncovering the truth Isabella had suspected in her heart, the older woman had departed so abruptly, leaving as many questions as answers. Isabella's eyes sank shut as she imagined these mysteries enveloping her like a shroud, cutting her off from the world.

"Miss Swan?"

Isabella started, spinning on her heel at the familiar voice. It was rare anyone was able to surprise her, but she had been so absorbed in her thoughts, in the tumult of the ocean and the sporadic booming of the sky, that she had not sensed the approach of a solitary rider.

"Miss Swan, are you well? You have no cloak—"

Recovering from her surprise, Isabella managed to respond, "Mr. James! How unexpected…" The words trailed away as relentless drops of pattering rain dampened her upturned face. She had not realized how severe the weather but James Eldritch Junior was clearly mystified given his bemused expression, likely wondering what on earth she was doing standing on the Coast Path in the midst of a storm. "The rain caught me quite by surprise," she attempted to explain with a tense smile.

He nodded before dismounting. "I see." His gaze briefly dropped to her bodice and she glanced down in turn, lips briefly gaping as she realized the damp muslin concealed nothing of her figure, the outline of her stays visible beneath the darkened fabric—as well as where the rigid material ended and the swells of her breasts began. She could not help plucking at the fabric before raising her gaze, eyes wide with embarrassment and dismay. "Do allow me to lend you my cloak," Mr. James offered, his tone low.

"No, that won't be necessary!" Isabella exclaimed though he was already reaching for the ties. For were he to lend her his cloak, then he must also accompany her home. Isabella knew she could not bear anyone's company in this moment, least of all the priggish James Eldritch Junior.

His pale blue eyes flew up with surprise at her refusal and she spoke before he could, attempting to explain, "I am not far from home and there is no need to trouble yourself."

"You must be chilled," he insisted, blond brows lowering over his gaze as water dripped off the brim of his hat.

"Oh, quite the contrary!" Isabella replied, attempting to smile as she met his gaze. "While I do not deny that this weather is far from pleasant, I am not at all cold." She attempted to drop into a quick curtsy. "As I do not wish to trouble you, I will be on my way."

"Wait."

His gloved hand was on her arm, and she was too shocked to do more than stare down at the firm grasp of his fingers against the damp muslin of her sleeve with complete disbelief, mouth agape. She could not think how to protest this familiarity, and Mr. James was pulling her close before she could find the words, his lips warmly close to her ear. "You mean to tell me there is more to earning your favor than simply finding you alone?"

At this she reared back, her heart stuttering in her chest as thunder boomed in the distance. "How dare you?!" She made no attempt to hide her outrage at his effrontery. By what cause had he to presume such ease with her person?

"How dare you?!" he snapped in return, tightening his grip. Isabella felt a dart of fright at this, her hand curling into a fist as she attempted to wrench her arm away. But he was much stronger, his voice a snarl as he yanked her close. "Isn't that why Maçon has been sniffing about? Don't claim you pretend to such virtue when he calls."

The rain had begun to fall in earnest and she could find no purchase in the mud, boots slipping as she struggled to free herself from his grip; she refused to respond to his insults, instead simply demanding he behave as a gentleman should. "You forget yourself," she hissed. "Let me go!" Her brows were low over fiery eyes, certain he would recover himself and remember his manners. He must.

But his features only grew distorted with growing anger. "You dare to refuse me?!" She might have been amused at the disbelief apparent in his outraged tone had she not been so frightened, heart pounding in her chest with increasing desperation, struggling against his insistent grip.

Her composure utterly undone, she drew a breath and heard herself shout, "Let me go!" But the final word was lost, drowned out by the deafening crack of thunder that seemed to boom directly overhead. It was immediately followed by a flash of lightning so brilliant, the landscape appeared as bright as a midsummer day, unnaturally lit for the briefest of moments. Her start of surprise was a mix of fear and awe—before she swiftly registered that Mr. James must have been equally startled for he had loosened his grasp, mouth agape and eyes wide as he gazed to the sky.

Isabella did not hesitate, twisting her arm free before spinning on her heel, racing away across the damp grass without a backward glance.

She did not dare to pause and attempt to catch her breath until she met with the narrow track that wound south to Lamorna and north to Sheffield. She was panting as she came to a reluctant halt, one hand braced against her side at the pain suddenly flaring bright there. It was only as the ache eased that she began to absorb her bedraggled state, her gown soaked, the hem spattered to the knee with mud, the petticoat beneath heavy with the weight of it. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Mr. James had not attempted to follow her, likely realizing the madness of his behavior. "Or coming to see his words were hardly convincing," she muttered under her breath as she began slowly walking north towards Swan Cottage.

The rain had begun to lessen but her thoughts were no less tumultuous for the weather growing calm. She was relieved to find no one was abroad, the roads likely too damp for anyone to attempt what she had so unwisely done, venturing out when the skies were so threatening. For now, along with the uneasy knowledge of her true nature, she must contemplate the assault that James Eldritch Junior had visited not only on her person, but on her reputation.

Isabella could only speculate that he had learned of Mr. Maçon's calls at Swan Cottage through the typical means—that in her enthusiasm, Sheil had likely shared with Mrs. Berty or the Hammets that they'd had such an illustrious visitor. And this fact had become common knowledge throughout the surrounding villages, enviously discussed by young ladies at assembly balls, and warping in the minds of men like James Eldritch Junior, proud, suspicious, and full of presumption.

Perhaps, like her, Mr. James could not quite believe that a gentleman of such wealth and refinement could be interested in a penniless orphan with no connections to speak of. But even if Mr. Maçon's interest was not supported by his intentions, his behavior had never intimated her reputation to be in question. He had never treated her as anything less than a lady, however reduced her circumstances.

The anger that had flared to life at these thoughts briefly dimmed as she realized that though she longed to upbraid Mr. James for his behavior, though she could easily imagine going to his father and revealing his son's appalling insolence, it was not her place to do so. And what was more, she did not doubt that Mr. James would dispute her claims—for who had been present to support her assertions?

As Swan Cottage came into view, the slate roof visible just through the swaying trees, Isabella's shoulders sagged as she accepted that there was little she could do. She had no protector, no father to shield her from harm, no brother to fight for her honor. There was only Sheil, an elderly companion who saw no harm in boasting of the handsome young Frenchman who had come to call.

"Isabella!" Sheil was framed in the open front door, her round face pale in the gloom of the entryway; she had likely watched and waited from the moment the first drop of rain fell from the sky. "What has happened to ye?" she cried as she hurried down the few steps as quickly as she was able, heedless of the rain still misting from the sky, her knees likely aching in this damp weather.

"The rain…" Isabella weakly began as she gestured down towards her gown.

"Did I not tell ye to take a cloak?" Sheil lamented as she took Isabella's arm and briskly guided her towards the house. "I had such a fright with that thunder and lightning, imagining ye out in this tempest!"

"I'm sorry, Sheil," Isabella's apology was genuine but she said no more, unwilling to reveal how much she regretted failing to heed her former nursemaid's advice. For, had she listened to the older woman's nagging, would Mr. James have been so incited by the sight of her figure in her damp gown? Isabella shook her head, unwilling to lay the blame for his behavior anywhere but with him. She could not imagine any other gentleman behaving as he had, regardless of the state of her garb.

"Take off your boots here, child, so as not to track any more of this mud or wet into the house," Sheil ordered as they stepped into the entryway.

Isabella stooped to do as she was told, speaking as she did so in the hope that it would deter any questions about the length of her absence or the state of her gown. "I should have turned back when it began raining but I confess I did not note the weather."

Sheil was nodding her head, her mouth set in a grim line. "Aye, such a mood ye have been in of late."

Isabella could not help a small smile, her ire and fear melting away in the familiar warmth of her home, Sheil glowering down at her as she removed her boots. "Just like my mother," she added, finishing the thought she knew her companion so often uttered aloud.

"Aye, just like her," Sheil grumbled before urging Isabella abovestairs to change.

But she could not help her smile fading as she gained her chambers, unable to avoid the pale face in the glass of her vanity. There was no denying the shock she had been dealt by Mr. James' attack, her eyes wide and stunned, her pallor chalky white. She could not help cringing at the memory of his hand on her person, shoulders nearly to her ears. "How could he?" she murmured, brow furrowing as she quickly began tugging at her dress, eager to forget the horrible moment once the wet muslin was gone from her skin.

Even as she said the words, his insults echoed in her ears in response.

_You mean to tell me there is more to earning your favor than simply finding you alone?_

For she could not deny that she had been alone with Mr. Maçon on more than one occasion. She had always presumed that being abroad in daylight meant her reputation was safe from harm but that was clearly not the case for men like James Eldritch Junior. And who else might hold the same opinion as he? She was so often without a chaperone that she had long ago ceased to be concerned about the matter, but now she could not push away the thought that her lack of concern had led her to this point, to presumption, and insolence, and a desperate flight beneath a stormy sky. She had always flouted Sheil's bidding, regarding her former nursemaid as over protective and too concerned with propriety, but now it was all too clear that her companion's caution was well within reason.

As she dragged the pins from her hair and bit back bitter tears, Isabella accepted that, where her reputation was concerned, she could not be too careful.


	13. Twilight

_Thanks so much for reading & reviewing. Teasers up on A Different Forest when I catch the thread._

* * *

><p><em>These Siths or Fairies they call Sleagh Maith or the Good People...are said to be of middle nature between Man and Angel, as were Daemons thought to be of old; of intelligent fluidous Spirits, and light changeable bodies (lyke those called Astral) somewhat of the nature of a condensed cloud, and best seen in twilight.<em>

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies  
>Robert Kirk<em>

**thirteen**

Isabella woke bathed in sweat, gasping for air, unable to recall what vision had brought her to such panic. Her eyes were wide and staring as she reared away from her pillow, struggling to discern some phantasm or other threatening shape in the gloom of her bedchamber. But there was nothing present, the curtains at the windows drawn against the night sky, the door of her clothespress hanging open, the looking glass of the vanity dimly reflecting the darkened room. Her hands plucked at the counterpane as if seeking some action, some means of addressing the uncertainty and fear still roiling in her stomach. But as her gaze darted around the room, absorbing the unchanged circumstances of her chamber, she realized there was nothing she could do. Whatever terror had haunted her dreams was ephemeral, fleeting, wisping away like smoke.

But she could not settle against the sheets, her heart pounding against her ribs, her hands curled into fists, tensely waiting for she knew not what. Her weariness the following morning was evident, her replies to Sheil's bright greeting monosyllabic, her gaze trained on her plate of porridge. She knew she should eat, that it was not worth riling Sheil so early in the day, but she had no appetite, unable to forget the feeling of Mr. James' hand on her arm.

"Well, ain't ye starved, child? Ye barely ate a bite of duck last night."

"Aye, I know, Sheil," Isabella replied tiredly, raising her gaze from her bowl. Words of explanation were on her lips but her exhaustion was so plainly written in the shadows beneath her eyes and her pale, drawn features that Sheil's expression instantly shifted to one of concern.

"Did ye not sleep a wink? Ack, child, if ye come down with a fever after being out in the storm…" She was already rising from her seat to fetch a wrap, and Isabella could not think to protest as her companion bustled from the room and soon returned with a heavy woolen shawl.

Though she had intended to assist Sheil and Mrs. Hammet with the laundering, the two women would not hear of it. Despite the mild temperature and shafts of sunlight glinting through the windows, Mrs. Hammet insisted upon stoking a small fire in the grate of the front sitting room while Sheil threatened to fetch the footwarmer from the kitchen. It was only then that Isabella protested, "I promise I am simply tired and feel not a hint of illness. Should I grow chilled, I swear I will ring the bell."

She spoke from beneath the depths of a wool shawl and silk cap that Sheil usually wore to Sunday services, a plaid blanket tucked around her hips as she reclined upon the settee. A stack of books was at her side for Sheil was determined she should rest. The former nursemaid hesitated at Isabella's words, her lips a thin line, as if uncertain whether she truly believed her charge. Finally, hands on her hips, she nodded once. "Very well. We'll be in the kitchen if ye need us."

Isabella nodded in turn, docilely lowering her gaze to the book in her hands. She had no difficulty in allowing her companion to coddle her under the circumstances, settling into the cushions with a contented sigh. She felt much as she had when she was ill as a child, though Renée had often sat with her as she read, one arm curled around Isabella's shoulders, the other holding her own book aloft. The memory almost blotted out the fright she'd had the day before, her attention so focused on the book in her hands that she did not initially hear the knock at the door.

"I'm coming!" Sheil called as she hurried as quickly as she was able from the kitchen at the rear of the cottage. It was her words that caused Isabella to lift her head, eyes wide and startled with the abrupt withdrawal of the world on the page.

"Good day, Miss Cadwallader," a familiar voice, smooth and slightly accented, sounded from the entryway.

Isabella did not hear Sheil's reply over her own gasp of surprise, blood coursing up her throat and roaring in her ears as she reared away from the settee and yanked the silly cap from her head. She could hear footsteps in the corridor as she scrambled to her feet, her gaze rapidly darting around the room as the blanket upon her lap slumped to the floor. She caught her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, cheeks pink, wild wisps of chestnut hair now framing her face, and her lips parted with dismay. But it was too late to set her appearance to rights for that same dulcet voice was now behind her, asking with the slightest hint of laughter, "Are you certain you're able to take callers?"

She spun to face him, absorbing in one glance his tall figure framed in the doorway, impeccably garbed in perfectly tailored clothes, before attempting to hide her agitation by stooping to retrieve the blanket from the floor and bundling the cap within its folds. "Mr. Maçon," her voice was breathless as she set the bundle down on the settee cushions. "I did not expect you!"

"Oh, that's quite alright," Sheil interjected before Mr. Maçon could reply, her expression wry though the words were placating. "Miss claimed she was well enough earlier." Isabella would have sworn a mischievous smile danced over the older woman's lips before she turned and receded down the corridor with Mr. Maçon's coat and hat in her arms. "I'll be just a moment fetching the tea things."

Isabella realized her mouth was agape and quickly snapped it shut, raising a flustered hand to her hair, "I thought your business—" But she had no sense of what had taken him away, nor what had brought him back. She weakly finished, lowering her hand to her side, "You were gone so long."

The briefest expression of surprise crossed his pale features before he smiled, a charming, winning smile that utterly distracted her from the fact that he was changing the subject. "It appears I simply need to catch you reading in order to surprise you."

Her gaze fell, the heat returning to her cheeks as she realized the truth of his insight, lip caught between her teeth.

"May I ask what so occupies your attention?" The question was gently asked, sensing her confusion.

She paused before quietly answering, "_The Mysteries of Udolpho_." She had not wanted to read anything overly taxing, and perhaps longed for a story where every supernatural occurrence held a logical explanation.

"Ah," Mr. Maçon acknowledged as he drifted further into the room, slowly crossing to the hearth and lifting a negligent hand to the ormolu clock upon the mantel. "And what do you make of that whining coxcomb, Valancourt?"

Isabella could not help forgetting her embarrassment, laughing as she looked up to meet his sparkling gaze. "At least he does not fall into a fainting fit at the least provocation like Emily," she smiled.

Mr. Maçon smiled in return, but the expression slowly faded, dark eyes growing fixed and intense. It was not within her power to look away, as if his gaze pinned her to where she stood. "It is a pleasure to see you." There was such sincerity in his voice that it took all of her willpower to resist replying as she wished, swallowing the words that would have expressed the same sentiment.

"It-it is always a pleasure," she finally managed, finding a response that was polite if not equally flattering; her gaze fell as she spoke, unable to watch should his expression shift from intensity to disappointment, first focusing on her hands, which fidgeted nervously before her, before glancing to the sitting room door and the corridor beyond. She was suddenly filled with the suspicion that Sheil would take far longer than necessary to procure tea—giving credence to the claims Mr. James had made the day before.

But Mr. Maçon's gloved hand was at her wrist, drawing her startled gaze, gentle but insistent. "You were not wrong." His tone was somber, speaking to the assumption she had partially voiced upon his arrival. "I did not intend to return as soon as this." He paused, his gaze falling to her hand. She found she could not breathe, waiting for him to speak. His fingers tenderly encircled her wrist, a living bracelet. "But I could not stay away."

Though she longed to remain rooted to where she stood, Isabella knew she must respond as her upbringing dictated, that she could not risk an encounter similar to the one that had occurred the day before. Slowly, she drew her hand from his grasp, fingers curling into a fist at her side. Her breath was caught in her throat, filled with the fear and certainty that much of the reason she must respond with such propriety was that she was so drawn to act as she shouldn't with him. Unlike James Eldritch Junior, she was too liable to wreck the remnants of her reputation at the slightest indication of his interest. If she feared the treatment she might receive should anyone know of her strange abilities, she had no doubt as to how she would be snubbed and insulted should her reputation be so tarnished.

Slowly, she retreated from the warmth of the fire and his unmoving figure, lips tightly pressed together, biting back words of apology as she reached the casement windows. She suddenly longed to unlatch them and throw them wide, leaning over the sill and stretching for the faint rays of sunshine breaking through the cloud cover. Instead, she lifted a hand to the pane, wishing she could forget the memory of Mr. James' hand on her arm, bruising and tight.

"I am not," she began, her voice so soft she was not certain he could discern her words. She forced herself to turn from the window, speaking more forcefully. "I am not," she repeated, "a plaything."

His reaction was swift, his shoulders rising nearly to his ears, gloved hands curling into fists at his sides; her gaze dropped to the floor, lips parting with the disappointed realization that he was reacting much like Mr. James, his frustration evident. The silence which followed her statement was undeniably leaden but she could not bring herself to speak further, waiting for him to reply—to erupt in anger, or bite out an apology before storming from the room. When he finally broke the tense silence, his tone had shifted, an undeniable harshness apparent in his voice. "Pray, what do you mean?"

Isabella's tone grew firm in response, her shoulders square. "A plaything," she repeated. "A trifle, a toy."

He did not speak for several seconds and she waited, eyes fixed on the carpet, bracing herself for outrage or indignation, wondering what fresh insult she might hear next.

Instead, Mr. Maçon's voice was unmistakably sardonic when he replied, "Much to my chagrin."

She could no longer be fascinated by the carpet, her gaze flying to meet his, eyes wide with surprise. Only his expression confirmed the impression she'd formed from his words, his smile crooked, his gaze rueful.

She could not help her confusion. "You would rather I be?" she asked, striving to sound insulted rather than forlorn. Was he truly admitting his regret that her background was such that he could not treat her as recklessly as he wished?

It was only then that his expression shifted, his brows briefly lowering before he looked away, staring at the golden clock as though its time-keeping were as fascinating as the carpet had been to Isabella moments before.

"I would rather be light and feckless as I have always been," he quietly replied. His gaze fell to the hearth, his voice growing dark. "But I am finding it impossible."

She knew not how to respond, raising her hands as though to motion—but she could think of no words, unable to understand his meaning. Her hands fell back to her sides before she began again, returning to her argument of before. "I-I am a-a lady," she stuttered. Her heart was beating too quickly, knowing this would likely be the conversation that would end their acquaintance forever. But she could not let this go on if his presumptions were the same as Mr. James. "However my conditions may appear—" His gaze rose and she saw his expression had returned to the irritation he'd demonstrated seconds before, brows low, black eyes baleful. "In contrast," she went on bravely, refusing to leave the words unsaid. "My conditions must contrast greatly to those ladies with whom you are accustomed to keeping company—"

But he would not let her continue, taking a step towards her with a frustrated hand at his brow. "You think my objections are _with you_?" The words were bitter, his eyes sinking shut as he shook his head. "No, my dear, my objections are entirely with me."

Her shoulders sagged, staring at him with increasing confusion and wonder. His claim made no sense; her gaze lingered over his tall frame, the spotless riding breeches and closely cut coat of brushed wool, his shirt crisp and white, the cravat at this throat intricately knotted. She could not bring herself to glance to the mirror above the fireplace, knowing the reflection there would show a pale, flustered girl with tousled hair, her gown frequently mended and faded, ears naked of even the simplest of jewels. How could she not be the source of his hesitation?

"If you knew…" he began softly, opening his eyes only to look away. He did not continue and she found herself longing to understand, lips parting as she struggled to find the words.

"How…" she began. He lifted his head at the sound and she saw his countenance was unmistakably troubled, his mouth set in a grim line, dark eyes distracted. "How could I hold any objection to you?" she softly asked.

But Mr. Maçon was simply shaking his head in response, his fingers at his temple again, his brow furrowed as though his head pained him. "I must go again." She could not help rocking back at this abrupt shift in topic, but he appeared not to notice her surprise, seeming to regain his composure. His hand fell back to his side, his brow smoothing as he straightened to his full height. "But you appear to need a demonstration of my intentions." He bowed low, the gesture almost mocking. "That is," he continued as he rose and negligently examined his cuffs, "if I cannot stay away, then I must make some promise to you."

Isabella straightened in turn, her brows drawing together as her breathing grew agitated. She could not be gratified by the obligatory nature of his words, her chin lifting with rankled pride. "You need make no promise you do not wish to keep," she snapped.

But he was not taken aback at her sudden show of temper, his gaze slowly rising from his cuffs to regard her from beneath black lashes, something contemplative and questioning in his expression.

It was impossible, days later, not to be utterly preoccupied with the moments that followed, struggling to recall some movement or sound—anything to explain what her senses could not. She told herself there must have been a blur of color that her eyes might have detected, or a crack of noise, like lightening too swift to be seen arcing to the ground—but she had discerned nothing. One moment, Mr. Maçon was across the room, regarding her with a thoughtful watchfulness she could not interpret, the small fire in the hearth throwing warm light upon the leather of his boots—and the next he was at her side, his breath cool against her cheek, his body inches from her own.

Isabella had swallowed a shriek that was born more of surprise than fear, eyes wide as she started at the sudden, impossible movement. But even as she questioned her senses, wondering if she had somehow fainted without falling, losing the moment in time in which he must have approached her at a pace she could discern—her shock and curiosity was subsumed by the distraction of his nearness, unable to move away from him as she knew she should.

"I cannot stay away," he repeated, the words soft, his breath a whisper against her ear. It took all of her strength not to lean towards him, to feel the brush of his lips against her skin. "Though perhaps you may now have doubts about being near me."

But she did not flinch away from his nearness, her senses filled with a sweet scent that she knew must be him. She did not tremble, though in some distant corner of her mind she knew she should wonder at his inhuman swiftness, should question how he had somehow crossed the room in the moment it had taken her heart to beat. And she did not upbraid him, angry and offended at the impropriety of his proximity, mere inches away.

"No," she finally breathed, turning her head to meet his gaze. "No doubts."

He was so near she could see the smooth perfection of his pale skin, taut over high cheekbones, a stark contrast to the inky black of his brows, lashes and dark eyes. She had never noted before the faint hint of red in the hair at his brow, the locks slightly long and brushed back from his high forehead, tendrils at his nape curling over the white cravat wound around his neck. She knew she should shift away, that propriety demanded she put distance between them—but she could not bring herself to move, drinking in the vision of him, suspecting somewhere, in a distant corner of her mind, that as she had presumed at their first meeting she could not be destined to know him long.

Mr. Maçon broke the lengthening silence, black eyes inscrutable. "My intentions are honorable." He stepped back, bowing low. "They could be nothing else where you are concerned."

Isabella's eyes widened at his words, her hands and cheeks suddenly warm, her breath quickening.

It was almost as if he could not meet her gaze, dark eyes downcast, his hands lost at his sides. "I am a selfish creature," the words were quiet, as if meant for himself. "But I will do what it takes to have you."


	14. Misfortune

Thank you so much for reading & reviewing.

* * *

><p>…<em>it would be pity, that what was my merit should be my misfortune.<em>

_Pamela, or a Virtue Rewarded  
><em>_Samuel Richardson_

**fourteen**

Isabella could be nothing but preoccupied in the days that followed. While her preoccupation was tinged with sadness, her despondency was much less pronounced than the first instance in which she'd learned of Mr. Maçon's withdrawal from the area. Indeed, it was impossible to resist taking hope in all he'd said for she did not doubt his words and the truth of his assertions—even those she did not entirely understand.

She turned their exchange over and over in her mind, attempting to make sense of the meaning of his claims. She could not help from scoffing every time she thought of his assertion that the objection must be with him…though when she thought of his bitter expression as he'd spoken the words, she had no doubts as to his sincerity. Her mind grasped for circumstances that anyone of good breeding might typically object to: perhaps he was illegitimate, the educated offspring of some nobleman disinclined to let his bastard suffer in poverty; or perhaps there was some scandal attached to his family that would cause her concern. She mulled over these various postulations, raising them in her mind before rejecting them: gambling debts, dueling, cheating at cards. But she knew in her bones none of these were right, that it was something more, something tied to the unnatural manner in which he'd crossed the room—the same manner, she suspected, that he had fled her company in the Hammet's field several weeks before.

Like her own strange abilities, she found it impossible to determine any explanation for something that should only exist in fairy tales. She found it equally perplexing to think that whatever gave him the ability to cross a room in one movement might also be the source of his objection to himself as a suitor. For if he suspected the truth of her nature, then were they not alike? Were they not all the more suited for one another?

But such thoughts were dangerous, leading her to visions of a future she still could not quite hold to be true. As she thought back to their exchange in the sitting room, she could not deny the thought that he had been resisting the urge to be near her, and had only seemed to come to the decision that his intentions were honorable when she withdrew from his advances.

Fortunately, her confusion and distraction drew no comment from Sheil, who likely guessed that her charge was preoccupied by the dashing foreigner. Isabella briefly wondered if the former nursemaid was indulging in such fantasies herself, lost in visions of white gowns edged in lace, and promises spoken under the benevolent gaze of a priest, untroubled by the things Isabella knew.

The weather remained warm and clear in the days following Mr. Maçon's visit, and Sheil and Mrs. Hammet decided to take advantage of the dry roads to visit the market in Mousehole. Isabella, still distracted and at odds with herself, shook her head when they asked her to accompany them. "I have sorely neglected the garden," she replied. She also knew she would enjoy nothing of the walk, nor the sights and diversions of town, far too preoccupied by her thoughts. After the two servants donned bonnets and gloves and began the walk down the Coast Path into town, Isabella did not hesitate in retreating to the garden at the rear of the cottage.

There, crouched among the herbs, her gown protected by a heavy apron, her pensive countenance hidden by the brim of her bonnet, she let her thoughts riot. Brow furrowed, she angrily tugged at weeds and grass, clearing the earth where herbs and vegetables were becoming choked, barely able to restrain murmuring her frustrated thoughts aloud.

To where had Mr. Maçon gone? She knew he was in pursuit of something, though he had yet to share what had truly brought him to Cornwall and why he lingered still. She had no doubt that she and Mr. James were not alone in finding his tale of a bolted horse dubious at best. Could it be that an inheritance from a distant relative had drawn him to this remote corner of England? Or was he fleeing rather than seeking, certain he would not risk discovery in such sleepy environs?

Though she felt resistance to the idea still, she began to accept the notion that this was the source of his hesitation in demonstrating his interest more openly. Whatever he was fleeing, whatever he was hiding was so momentous that it gave him pause in making legitimate claims upon her. Isabella bit her lip, worrying the tender flesh, wishing she knew what secret he held close, what dark blot he felt he must hide from her—from everyone. She pushed away the thought that there was anything he could have done that would give her pause, for how could a gentleman so mannered and refined have committed any act that objectionable?

A sudden chill washed over her skin though no breeze stirred the branches of the trees above, the garden quiet and still. She raised her head, certain a gathering of clouds must have rolled in from the sea, blocking out the warmth and light of the sun. But she squinted from beneath the brim of her bonnet upon finding the sun shining down, unimpeded by any gray pall. Her gaze fell to the ground, eyes wide, blinking away the spots that now swam in her vision, fingers curling and unfurling with nervous anticipation.

She stumbled to her feet, senseless of the metal tools on the ground, her stomach tight with the sudden certainty that something dark and terrible was upon the horizon. Breath quickening, she hurried towards the cottage, uncertain of what maelstrom was coming but unwilling to be caught beneath the hail or lightening that might strike from the sky.

It was in the kitchen, as she tugged off her bonnet and drew the apron over her head, struggling to calm herself with deep breaths, that she heard the knock upon the door.

Isabella's head jerked up, brown eyes wide and fearful as she gazed toward the kitchen door and the long corridor which led to the front of the house. Her lips parted, a sudden urge to run away causing every muscle in her body to tense—though she did not move, frozen where she stood upon the flagstones of the kitchen floor. The knock sounded again, urgency apparent in the rapid beat, and she flinched, broken from her unmoving fearfulness, hands trembling at her sides.

A swift breath passed through her lips at a sudden realisation, her fear gaining a name with the solid certainty of who must be waiting on the opposite side of the door. The knot in her stomach clenched anew with a mix of dread and trepidation.

"Coming," she called faintly, for she knew not what else to do.

Smoothing the rumpled muslin of her skirts, she crossed from the kitchen into the corridor, her steps muted by the runner beneath her feet. She paused as she reached the door, promising herself she would not open it wide enough for him to enter, that she did not owe him that courtesy. Her lips were a thin line as she reached for the latch.

"Oh!" Relief washed through her veins, shoulders sagging as she found Mr. Eldritch upon her stoop rather than his insolent younger son, her hand relaxing where it tensely gripped the brass latch. "Mr. Eldritch," she bowed her head. "I did not expect you."

Her gaze was drawn to a figure beyond the gate, and she struggled to maintain her composure as she saw Mr. James mounted upon his sturdy chestnut, the reins of his father's stallion in his tense fist. She was grateful the elder Mr. Eldritch could not see how her knuckles grew white where they wrapped around the latch, nor discern the rapid beat of her heart. Perhaps it was this anxiety that prevented her from immediately noting Mr. Eldritch's altered demeanor, his countenance uncharacteristically sober, blue eyes unsmiling as he bowed in greeting. "Miss Swan."

"As you can see," he gestured to where his son waited, "we cannot stay to tea. But I trust you can spare a moment?"

"Of course," Isabella nodded, a coil of dread returning as she noted his grave manner, at a loss as to what could cause the usually jolly gentleman to turn so serious.

Once they had turned into the front sitting room, Mr. Eldritch worryingly silent as he took his hat from his head, Isabella nervously made the obligatory offer of refreshments despite his earlier indication he would not stay. "Are you certain you would not care for tea? Sheil is in town with Mrs. Hammet at the moment—"

"No, no," Mr. Eldritch interrupted, twisting the brim of his hat in tense hands. "We truly cannot stay. That is, the purpose of my call is…" he inhaled, his blue eyes falling to the floor, unable to meet her gaze. "My intention is to put these ridiculous rumors to rest and I am certain I can do so," his gaze rose, "once I have what I know to be the truth from your own lips."

"Rumors?" Isabella echoed, frowning with confusion. She could not imagine what Mr. James might have shared of their encounter, but she paled as she absorbed Mr. Eldritch's words, unable to imagine his coming explanation would bode well for her.

Mr. Eldritch pressed on. "There was a storm three days ago. Do you recall the thunder and lightning?"

"Yes," she replied slowly, her thoughts reluctantly returning to that dreadful day. It was impossible to forget the boom of the thunder and arc of lightening that had startled Mr. James to the degree that it had freed her from his grasp.

"A boat was lost at sea that day," Mr. Eldritch exhaled, regret evident in his voice. "There was hope the two fishermen aboard might return but with each passing day, it becomes less likely they have somehow survived."

Isabella's eyes sank shut, a hollow sensation seeming to expand within her chest, empty and cold as seawater. She had once wondered if her mother could call storms into being as well as predict their arrival. She could not imagine how she could begin to atone if she was at fault for the severity of that storm, however it may have assisted her in gaining her freedom from Mr. James.

"People in the village are understandably upset," Mr. Eldritch continued, dragging her from her despairing thoughts. "Jessamyn Newtyn has many mouths to feed if her husband is truly lost at sea."

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked, thinking even now of what food they might be able to spare from the larder. For it was now clear that Mr. Eldritch was calling in his capacity as village councilman, likely seeking charity for the newly needy families.

Mr. Eldritch shook his head. "I would not dream of imposing on you or Miss Cadwallader in such a manner. No," his spine straightened, his voice growing gruff. "I am here to settle the question of whether you were on the Coast Path that day—on the cliffs overlooking the storm."

Isabella could not help the rush of blood that filled her cheeks, nor how the color immediately drained away, leaving her pale and wan, lips parted as she sought words that could satisfy him. As she saw his expression shift from one of grim inquiry to unmuted surprise, her heart sank.

Mr. Eldritch's mouth worked for several seconds before he managed to ask, "But why should you have been out in a storm, my child?"

"I—I," she began. But she could not confess that she had been preoccupied by thoughts of a foreigner likely trusted less so than she, nor that the very reason the rumor had begun was his own spiteful, insolent son. "It was not raining when I left," she weakly finished, gaze casting to the floor.

They were enveloped in a dreadful silence, full of unspoken words. Isabella could not bring herself to meet his gaze, shoulders sagging with each passing second, defeated by her inability to explain.

Finally, Mr. Eldritch broke the silence with firm words. "Miss Swan, you and I know you had nothing to do with the storm that took those men's' lives." She could hear the inhalation of his breath and she forced herself to lift her gaze, eyes wide as she found his countenance still troubled, brow furrowed. "I was hoping I might be able to dispel superstitious rumor with truth but it appears that is not to be." He sighed, twisting the brim of his hat in his hands one last time before settling it upon his thinning white hair. Her eyes sank shut at his trust in her, blinking back tears of relief at his goodness.

His countenance was resolved as he spoke next, gaze unwavering. "Miss Swan, if anyone else should come to you with similar questions," his voice grew somehow more firm, unwilling to accept disagreement. "Do not respond with the truth." He paused to await her response and she quickly nodded her head, lip caught beneath her teeth. She loathed the thought of promising to lie about what was clearly such a critical matter, but she knew she had no choice.

Mr. Eldritch shook his head before turning towards the door. "Tempers are high and reason is low when tragedy strikes."

She quietly responded as she followed him into the corridor. "Very well, Mr. Eldritch," As he opened the front door wide, her ears caught the bleating of sheep, likely being driven to market from St. Buryan or Lamorna. It was difficult to recall such mundane activities still took place when her world felt as if it was unraveling, dully watching from the front steps as their matted, fleecy bodies milled around the two horses; Mr. Eldritch's stallion stamped restlessly as Mr. James fumbled at the reins, attempting to control his own horse as well as that of his father.

She recognized Mr. Bannion, who sharply whistled between pursed lips as he tried to direct the sheep, lowering his staff to shove at the dawdling animals. Mr. Eldritch quickened his pace when he saw his son struggling with the reins; as he reached for the latch at the gate, he minutely shook his head at Mr. James, any words he might have spoken lost among the bleating of the milling sheep.

Isabella's gaze fell, realizing this was the beginning of the deception. Any relief she might have felt at seeing the tense visit come to an end was lost as she recalled her mother's letter, wondering how much she would have to hide to avoid the enmity of her neighbors and acquaintances.

But Mr. James was speaking, protesting whatever his father must have indicated about his visit with Isabella. His voice was a shout, drawing her gaze from her slippered feet. "What? What do you mean?" His gaze shifted to her figure, blue eyes wide with outrage as he lifted a finger in her direction. "She's lying!" He glanced back to his father, who had the reins in one hand and was attempting to calm his horse with the other, a soothing hand at the snorting stallion's neck.

"James." The word was a warning, audible even to Isabella, who stood too shocked to move upon the front steps of the cottage.

"She was at the cliffs that day!" Mr. James cried, heedless of his father's admonition. His horse stamped restlessly beneath him, sensing his rising agitation. "She was there! She's lying to claim she was not!" The final words were nearly hysterical, patches of red evident upon his cheeks as the sheep milled with increasing distress around the legs of the two horses.

"James!" There was no mistaking the harsh tone in Mr. Eldritch's reply. "Calm yourself!" he bid, still attempting to gain control of the restless stallion. He lifted a booted foot to the stirrup as he firmly gripped the reins.

But Mr. James was too outraged to heed his father's words, going on wildly as though Mr. Eldritch had not spoken. "Her mother was the same!" he shouted, "A papist and a temptress!"

Mr. Eldritch's stallion snorted and bucked at these final words, and Isabella gasped, instinctively stepping forward. But she was too far and too late, watching with horror as the stallion reared—and Mr. Eldritch, half-mounted and unsteady, was violently thrown back, his body crashing to the ground.

She did not realize she was calling his name, careening down the path to the gate, until Mr. James' voice permeated the panic blurring out all else. "Stay back! Stay back—you will _not_ touch my father!" He had swung down from his saddle and was now kneeling over the prone figure; Mr. Bannion's curses reached her ears as he approached the two men, shoving at the few sheep who still lingered around the horses.

"Mr. James," Isabella cried, breathless, "be reasonable!" She could see blood pooling beneath Mr. Eldritch's head, his eyes closed though his chest rose and fell faintly with weak breaths.

But he did not respond, thrashing out of his coat as Mr. Bannion reached his side and kneeled to the ground. "Mr. James!" she cried again, struggling for calm, hoping he would listen to reason. "You must bring Mr. Eldritch inside and fetch a doctor!"

"I will do no such thing!" he snarled in return, briefly raising his gaze to pierce her with wild eyes. "You brought this about—"

Isabella's mouth gaped, eyes wide with shock. "How could I—"

"With your cunning!" he snapped before she could fully form a response, "just as you brought on the storm that killed the two fishermen!"

"Mr. James," she protested. She glanced to Mr. Bannion but he simply regarded her with a hard, suspicious stare as he pulled at Mr. Eldritch's shoulders with work worn hands, allowing James to drag his coat beneath his father's head. "Mr. James…"

But it was as if she was not there, the two men grunting as they struggled to lift Mr. Eldritch's limp frame onto the saddle of Mr. James' more docile horse.

Isabella sagged against the fence gate as she watched Mr. James swing up behind the limp figure of his father, one gloved hand steadying the unmoving body. Mr. Bannion turned and cautiously approached the stallion, tentatively reaching for the reins before leading the snorting horse towards the mounted riders. The drover glanced in her direction before handing the tethers to Mr. James, and she nearly flinched at the antipathy apparent in his stubbled face. Her gaze dropped to her pale hands, weakly grasping the wrought iron of the fence, listening dully to the gallop of horse hooves carrying the two men away, and the whistle and shout of Mr. Bannion herding his flock to town.

She remained standing there long after the sound of their retreating figures had faded, the beat of her heart audible in her ears, her gaze blank and staring. She could not absorb all that had happened, certain she would awake at any moment, bathed in a cold sweat beneath the sheets of her bed. But the breeze continued to whisper around her frame, tugging at her hair and pushing against her skirts…and there was no denying the dark stain of blood against the stones that edged the lane.

"I did not do this," she whispered, desperation evident in her wide eyes and strained voice, as though she sought to convince herself. She inhaled deeply, focusing on the sensation of breath filling her lungs, gaining a foothold of calm. "I am innocent." The words grew firm, for she knew it to be true.

But as she thought of Mr. Bannion's silent, accusing stare, as she closed her eyes against the memories of Mr. James' livid words, she was not certain the truth would be believed.


	15. Injured

_Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review._

* * *

><p><em>I am the less surprised at his ill-nature, since he has already injured you.<em>

_Evelina, or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**fifteen**

Her calm was unassailable by the time Sheil and Mrs. Hammet returned to the cottage, aggrieved and perplexed at having been swiftly passed by Mr. James on the Coast Path. Isabella met them in the corridor, having been unable to focus on anything while pacing within the front sitting room. Sheil did not allow her to speak, questions bursting from her mouth the moment she passed through the door.

"Who was that poor man with Mr. James? I daresay he was gravely injured!"

"There was an accident." She knew that to share what Mr. James had shouted, his volume and agitation likely contributing to the distress of Mr. Eldritch's horse, would only throw Sheil into a defensive rage. She had no sense of how much time she had, but knew she must try to convince her elderly companion to leave.

"An accident?" Sheil queried, hands on her hips, her expression indicating she had a barrage of questions ready. Mrs. Hammet curtsied and continued down the corridor to the kitchen, the basket of food from the market over her arm.

Isabella simply nodded, her gaze steady as she met Sheil's incredulous stare. "You must go with Mrs. Hammet to their farm." Sheil rocked back on her heels with disbelief before she opened her mouth to protest. Isabella continued before she could speak, "I have no sense of what Mr. James intends but I know he will return—and I do not want you implicated in whatever recompense he pursues."

The severity of the situation seemed to dawn upon the older woman at these words for her ruddy cheeks grew pale, blue eyes wide and dazed as she asked, "Recompense?" She shook her head slowly. "But, child, what can you mean?"

Though Isabella had no desire to deepen the woman's shock, she also couldn't bear the thought of any harm coming to her innocent companion. "You saw Mr. James taking Mr. Eldritch to Mousehole to see the surgeon." Isabella could not help feeling chilled as she spoke the words, clasping her hands before her in a futile attempt to warm herself. She squared her shoulders before continuing, "His horse reared and he fell—there is blood on the stones beyond the front gate." Sheil's eyes sank shut, as if seeking to deny this truth.

"'T'was an accident—" She was shaking her head again, and though Isabella knew this was the truth, she had no doubt Mr. James would disagree.

"But Mr. James is seeking someone to blame and I am certain," Isabella inhaled, seeking the strength to accept whatever must come. "I am certain he thinks I am that person."

It was Sheil's turn to find strength, her expression growing irate, brows low over her eyes. "By what cause? For what did Mr. Eldritch send that boy away to school in Plymouth if he's set to believe every superstitious piece of claptrap—"

Isabella knew there could not be much time and spoke before Sheil could rile herself into a lather—and to what end? Declaiming Mr. James' intellect would not prevent him from returning to the cottage—with what reinforcements Isabella could only guess. "Sheil," she interrupted the older woman's tirade, her voice firm. If nothing else could convince the older woman to leave for her own safety, perhaps the truth might work where other arguments had failed. "Mr. James' superstitions are in some cases supported by reality." Isabella's gaze was steady. "Therefore might any claim he makes be all the more difficult to deny?"

Sheil's response was immediate. "Supported by reality?" Her gaze narrowed, her tone dubious. "Don't tell me ye believe in fairies and spirits as some of these folk do?"

Isabella regarded her former nursemaid with an unwavering gaze, seeking the calm that had lured the wild creatures near and prevented Raginnis' bull from demonstrating the ire he apparently showed on all other occasions. Her voice was gentle as she asked, "Have you not always said I am my mother's daughter?"

Sheil's gaze immediately cut away, falling to the floor before darting to the cold ashes in the grate of the fireplace. "I don't know what ye mean."

Isabella's voice remained soft, coaxing, "Renée was different, was she not?" She paused, briefly closing her eyes as she sought some example that must convince the older woman what they had always known but never discussed. Her eyes flew open as she recalled an instance that could not be disputed as incredible and inexplicable; but for the turmoil that had followed, Isabella herself might have more closely questioned her mother's true nature.

Her voice was gently pleading as she asked, "How could she have known about my father's death days before the letter—"

But Sheil would hear no more. "Ye have not her eyes," her voice was curt. "Ye have the eyes of your father."

"This is so," Isabella acknowledged with a slight nod. "Nonetheless, I am very like her."

"It matters not!" Sheil nearly barked, hands rising to her hips, unwilling to admit anything, refusing to accept Mr. James' could find fault with her charge in any way. Her gaze was steady and fierce as she returned Isabella's calm stare, mouth set in a stubborn line. "I have served the Swan family most of my life, and raised ye from a babe. It matters not what Mr. James or anyone else thinks, for I know ye to be a blameless girl despite your refusal to wear a bonnet when I tell ye to."

Isabella could have laughed at this tirade had the circumstances not been so dire. For she could now see that Sheil would not leave her, too stubborn and loyal to falter in her service to the Swans. "Very well," she nodded. "Will you please tell Mrs. Hammet there is no need to prepare supper and that she should return home as soon as possible?"

Sheil nodded grimly in turn, retreating to the kitchen to deliver her message.

Isabella could not remain in the front sitting room, could not maintain the pretense that all was well and no worry weighed upon her mind. Instead, she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, her steps placid, her countenance calm. But though her outward appearance was one of tranquility, her thoughts ricocheted through her head. She thought of running, of fleeing with a valise full of clothes—but where would she go? There was no corner of this county where she would not find a familiar face, where her connections would not be known with the briefest of inquiries. And how would she support herself were she to flee her home? Was she to be a governess? A maid? She thought of fabricated references and writing letters with her left hand to disguise her penmanship only to exhale in a huff of frustration at such ridiculous flights of fantasy. There was no where for her to go and nothing for her, a lady who had never born formal employment, to pursue.

Upon reaching her bedchamber, she crossed to the windows, brow faintly furrowed, gaze watchful. The warped panes overlooked the wedge of green encircled by rusted wrought iron at the cottage entrance; beyond, the narrow lane wound towards the Coast Path a short distance to the east and St. Buryan to the west. From the front sitting room the lane was largely shadowed by the hedgerows which followed its border as far as the juncture with the Coast Path, but the second story of the cottage provided a view beyond the dense shrubbery and muddy track; on a cloudless day, the gray of the ocean could be glimpsed, the winding coastal road marking where land ended and sea began.

Though the sun had not yet set and the sky was only beginning to grow violet with the coming dusk, the glow of the torches was unmistakable in the distance. Isabella stood at the window, gazing through the muddled glass, the only indication of her agitation the curling of her hands into fists. Her breathing remained steady though there was no denying the acceleration of her heart. She thought of the foxgloves in the garden behind the cottage, her mother's voice in her ear, "_La digitale_ will slow the beat…"

Only Renée was gone, the blow of her husband's death too much for her to bear…and Isabella was alone, set to face threats she could not begin to imagine. As the glow of the torches disappeared behind the high hedgerows, she squared her shoulders before turning from the window with a determined stride.

But as she descended the stairs, Isabella gasped with shock upon seeing the plump figure of her former nursemaid flying down the corridor, moving far more swiftly than she had ever seen before. Driven by outrage, or fear, or the futile instinct to protect her charge, Sheil raced to the front door and threw it wide before Isabella had gained the landing, brandishing the largest frying pan from above the kitchen hearth in one threatening hand.

"How dare ye!" Her voice was an indignant cry. Isabella picked up her skirts and raced down the remaining stairs, certain she would never be able to live with herself should her companion came to harm.

"We have no complaint with ye!" An unfamiliar voice shouted back.

Isabella was breathless as she turned through the front door, quickly registering that the crowd beyond Sheil's threatening figure was no more than ten men, mostly drovers and fishermen. Perhaps it would still be possible to reason with them—Mr. James could not possibly have the support of the entire town if he was only able to rally this small force. "Sheil," she tried to gain her companion's attention, reaching with placating hands to grasp her shoulders.

But the men gathered in the front yard moved forward at her appearance, exclamations of fear and excitement on their lips, torches raised high as they called, "'Tis her!"

Sheil lurched forward in return and Isabella found herself grasping only air. "If ye have a complaint with Miss Swan, ye have a complaint with me!" Sheil crowed as she waved the pan menacingly at the closing circle of men.

But the men were focused on Isabella, whose frantic gaze was fixed on Sheil. "'Tis the one what sent Michael and Joshua to their graves!"

"Black artist!"

"Murderer!"

"Papist!" Isabella's eyes widened and flew from Sheil's brave figure upon hearing the voice of Mr. Jenks, stunned to see the vicar pointing an accusing finger in her direction. She could recall curtsying to him in greeting when in town several weeks before; now he stood illuminated by the flame of the torch he held high, his countenance filled with righteous fervor.

As her gaze darted over the crowd, she more fully absorbed their rough stubbled features cast into shadow by wavering torch light, features written with unrestrained anger. Isabella swallowed, struggling to fight the fear curdling in her gut. Beyond the gate, her gaze caught Mr. James mounted upon his horse, watching with eyes that appeared to glitter in the dancing flames. "I—" she began. But words failed her, and she likely wouldn't have been heard as Sheil was bellowing with outraged fury as she brandished her pan in Mr. Jenks direction.

"She is more Christ-like than ye, with your fixation on vice and temptation—"

There were shouts of protest, and as Sheil took a step towards Mr. Jenks, one of the rough fishermen lunged towards her, wrapping strong arms around her plump figure.

"Sheil!" Isabella cried, rushing forward.

But she never reached Sheil's side. She heard the pan clatter to the ground and the roars of approval that followed, but she was restrained by a callused hand, then caught up against a firm body that bore the unmistakable scent of tobacco, fish, and the sweaty ripeness of infrequently washed garments. "I've got her!" She struggled instinctively, attempting to wrench away.

A voice cried out, briefly silencing the uproar. "I lay the death of my father at her feet!"

Isabella sucked in a breath at these words, her muscles momentarily growing rigid with the stunned realization that Mr. Eldritch had indeed died from his injuries—and that her circumstances were even more grave than she had realized. Her mind briefly flitted to the gaol in Penzance, all of the air rushing from her lungs as she sagged with despair.

But Sheil's voice, furious and unrepentant, shook her from her daze. "'T'was an accident, James Eldritch Junior!" The older woman continued to struggle as she was dragged by two men towards the cottage, spitting protests the entire way. "How dare ye!? To believe such superstitious nonsense!"

"No, no, no!" Isabella cried, straining to see where Sheil was being taken, hands balling into fists as she writhed against her confinement. Turning her gaze back to Mr. James, she insisted with renewed strength, "I am innocent!"

But Mr. James and the crowd were rapidly regaining their fervor after the surprise and distraction of Sheil's resistance; the men raised their torches high as they gathered closer, snarling epithets and accusations.

"Was it not the final effort of a black artist about to be revealed!?" Mr. James continued as he swung down from his horse. There were growls and shouts of support as she was jostled towards him.

"Aye, and she does not attend high church!" Mr. Jenks cried in agreement.

"The storm was her fault!"

"The storm that took Newtyn's life!"

"Six babes to feed!"

Mr. James was before her, blue eyes fixed and disturbingly empty, his countenance inscrutable. He raised his hands, his expression unchanging, and though she could not discern what he carried, she soon knew—for everything grew dark and she swallowed a shriek of fear, her heart racing as she panted for breath. She was briefly released, but only to be jostled and spun around, her wrists gripped by gloved hands before she felt the rough fibers of rope tightly winding around her arms.

"Temptress!"

"Papist!"

Though she did not grow calm, each breath indicated a grain sack covered her head, the scent grassy and dry, the weak light of dusk filtering through the wide weave of the burlap. "Mr. James," she strived to be heard but knew she was drowned out by the shouts and cries of the mob. "Mr. James, I am innocent!"

"Listen not to this cunning artist, desperate to save her hide!" She was shoved forward, rough hands against her shoulders, nearly stumbling to the ground, blinded and unbalanced. Another hand wrenched her upright and she registered the transition of gravel beneath her feet to the packed dirt of the road. "Do we not all know what affect she has on creatures both wild and tame? For what reason should my father's horse have reared but for her black artistry!"

"Mr. James," she tried to speak despite the muffling burlap against her lips. "Please be reasonable!"

A sharp sting caused her to flinch forward, a gasp bursting past her lips; another soon followed and she could no longer restrain the panicked tears that filled her eyes with each painful blow—for she quickly realized rocks and pebbles were being thrown in her direction, the crowd growing incensed with every word spoken by Mr. James. "Please!" she cried.

But it was no use, the men lathered into frothing anger, cursing and swearing as they peppered her with thrown stones; she cringed as hands grasped her limbs, whimpering as she felt palms against her waist and thighs, too familiar, squeezing her flesh—before she was abruptly lifted and tossed forward, the air bursting from her lungs as she landed upon a hard, unyielding object.

As the horse beneath her danced and whinnied, she dimly realized it was the pommel of a saddle; in her disorientation, she tried to reach her hands forward to stroke the animal's sides in an attempt to sooth its agitation, uselessly struggling against the ropes binding her wrists. As she slowly regained her senses, flinching and cringing against the saddle as rocks dashed against her legs and shoulders, she realized the horse was moving, led forward into the growing darkness.

"Mr. James," her voice was a near moan, struggling against her binds, briefly wondering if she could writhe free; even if she simply fell to the ground, it would force the men to reconsider whatever course they were pursuing. "Mr. James!"

A bright light abruptly flashed behind her eyes as something much larger than a pebble cracked against her skull. The world faded to twilight, shadowed and vague, empty of threats or comforts.

~ • ~

"Rouse yourself!" The words were impatient and rough, all courtesy absent. Isabella shook her head, certain she knew the speaker but unable to gather her thoughts. When had her mattress become so unyielding? And why should Sheil be so ill-tempered when waking her? The name of her nursemaid echoed in her head, a tendril of distress associated with the thought. _Sheil._

"Stop feigning such helplessness," the voice bit out, "when we all know very well what you are capable of."

Isabella could only reply with a faint groan, her head pounding, vision swimming as she struggled to open her eyes. Had she fallen into a fever and was only now recovering? Was she lost in some nightmare of vilification and pain, the words of her mother's letter echoing in her ears? _…I sought to spare you…_

Then she was upright, dragged roughly from the horse upon which she had been thrown, the grain sack over her head yanked away. She blinked as shadows spun before her gaze, eyes wide and dazed as her pupils dilated and shrank, sagging as her feet refused to hold her weight. Attempting to lift her hands for balance only further unsteadied her, reeling as she realized that her arms were tightly bound behind her back.

"Mr. James," she weakly whispered, for she now placed the voice, the Cornish burr only faintly evident for he had always attempted to sound as if he hailed from somewhere more cultured and sophisticated. The disorienting feeling of something damp trickling from her temple to her cheekbone compounded her confusion, fingers twitching against the ropes binding her wrists with the desire to wipe it away. She briefly wondered why he wouldn't accept that she could not dance with him, for she had already promised the first dance to another.

His voice was a hissed response, a hairs breadth from her ear. "If you sink, your innocence is proved." His lips were grossly close, damp against the curl of her earlobe, pushing back the tendrils of hair that had been disturbed by the grain sack. "And if you float, 'tis proof of your guilt."

It was only then that her vision cleared and reality returned. She was not in her bed, woken from a feverish dream. Nor was she in an assembly hall, faint due to the press of warm bodies and too much ratafia. She could not help sagging as she saw the nightmare was real, torches flickering in the darkness of a wooded clearing—but she shook her head as she saw it was not a clearing, the surface before her dancing with the reflected light of the flames. No, it was not a meadow or fallow field overgrown with wildflowers. It was the still surface of Tiller's spring, the glittering expanse of water like a looking glass at her feet.

Isabella began to tremble as it became clear that she had not been taken to the gaol in Penzance, left to await the assizes. Nor was she in Mousehole at a council meeting, to be confined in stocks as punishment, her reputation forever ruined. As her pupils adjusted to the darkness, she saw the drovers and fishermen gathered close to the irregular shore of the spring, eager to try her by these superstitious means, determined to have her blood.

"Mr. James!" Her voice was a plea and she sought to turn her head and meet his gaze, breathless with fear. "You can't possibly—"

"Her witchery killed my father!" His shout drowned out her voice, one hand on the ropes binding her wrists and the other at her shoulder, pushing her into the shallows.

Isabella sucked in a breath as her slippered feet grew wet and cold, her tremors ceasing as she stiffened with profound fear. She attempted to rear back but his hands remained at her wrists and shoulder, unyielding and strong. "Mr. James!" She twisted in his grasp, her voice hoarse with desperation. "Please! I have done nothing wrong!"

"Do not listen to the witch's lies!" He snarled as he shoved her again, his own boots splashing into the water behind her. "She must prove her innocence!" There were roars of approval from the men at the shore and she found she could no longer raise her gaze to their eager, distorted features, illuminated by the orange light of the torch flames. Every glance sent threads of despair surging through her heart, certain they would not see reason. The trees beyond their figures appeared all the more ghostly and dark for the dancing lights, empty of any rescuers.

"Mr. James," she panted, watching with horror as the white lawn of her gown pooled upon the dark water's surface, now as high as her knees. "Mr. James, you must listen to me."

"I will do no such thing," he fired back, easily pushing her forward despite her attempt to dig her heels into the silty spring bottom, muscles rigid as she tried to resist, hips twisting as she sought some way to writhe free from his grasp and dart away. But his hand was firm around the ropes at her wrists, his arm braced against her back as he continued to push her deeper into the water. "You _will_ be tried."

The crystal reflection of the water began to dance and splash with the rocks and pebbles that were breaking the still surface, thrown by the jeering men on the shore. She could see their mouths moving, shouting words of approval and encouragement, but the sound was a dull roar in her ears against the desperate pounding of her own heart. "Mr. James—"

But her gown was suddenly tight around her throat and she realized he was gathering the fabric in one hand, the other tightening around the ropes at her wrists. She swallowed a scream as she felt herself rising, instinctively kicking her feet though she made no contact with his shins, breathless with fear and anger—before she was flying for the briefest of moments, free from his grasp.

The waters parted almost silently, and all was darkness and cold as she was submerged.

~ • ~

The quiet was shocking, the pounding of her heart like a drum in her ears. She kicked, struggling for purchase, certain she could not be so deep as to fail to stand and raise her head or lips above the water's surface. But her feet found no sandy bottom, her skirts churning about her legs, heavy and growing more weighted with each passing second as the fabric rapidly absorbed the cold water.

Isabella kicked again, striving for the surface, neck arching as she opened her eyes wide to the dark gloom of the spring's depths. She could only faintly make out the flickering light, distorted and wavering beneath the rippling surface—which seemed feet beyond her grasp.

It took all of her willpower to keep from crying out, lips tight, her lungs beginning to burn with the effort of holding her breath. She writhed, struggling to free her hands, legs kicking against her heavy skirts, unwilling to give up, refusing to believe that this could be her fate.

_Invocateur._

The word was a whisper, a tantalizing wisp of hope as her lungs burned, legs tangled in the sodden weight of her skirts. Her eyes widened, twisting and kicking as she desperately thought of Sheil. But how would she achieve the calm and focus that seemed to be necessary to exercise her abilities? What was more, was her companion free to rescue her? She had not been among the men on the shore, likely locked in a cupboard in the cottage, furious and frightened, unable to help even if she could escape.

Isabella writhed, teeth clenched behind tight lips, fighting to free her hands from the ropes—but the bonds were only becoming stiffer and tighter beneath the water. She swallowed a scream, eyes wide with fright, shaking her head with the realization that there truly was no recourse; she was utterly powerless and she was going to die.

Unbidden, he came to her mind, eyes impossibly black, skin pale and smooth, the scent of him in her head even now. Her heart's pounding eased against her ribs though she knew herself to be drowning, the will to fight weakening with every passing second.

She had never said his Christian name aloud but it was like a siren's call in her mind, a soothing song.

_Edward…_

Isabella knew now that the struggle against her bonds was no use, the rigidity of her muscles easing, her hands rapidly growing cold and numb. But her legs still weakly kicked, the fight to survive instinctive though her head bowed, her lungs afire.

_Edward…_

Her eyes sank shut as she pictured him there, with her beneath the still surface of the water, dark hair a cloud about his face, pale fingers reaching towards her cheek.

_Edward…_

She could hear his voice, slowly inclining her head to the sound.

_I cannot stay away…_

She could feel the nearness of his form as her legs ceased kicking against the dragging weight of her skirts.

Her lips parted.

_Edward…_


	16. Knowne Companion

_How likely is it a woman would have been persecuted for witchcraft more than 100 years after the infamous witch trials of the 17th century? A conversation on this topic over on A Different Forest prompted me to share one of the sources I've used as research for this story: English Society in the 18th Century by Roy Porter. I thought I'd also share some passages that led me to think mob violence and retribution were highly possible, if not always directly tied to witchcraft:_

_"Upright citizens - not just blackguards and bravoes but the village Hampden too - did not shrink from force to get their due...Casanova was astonished when Drury Lane patrons, finding a different play performed from the one billed, threatened to wreck the theatre unless the manager, David Garrick, abjectly apologized: 'On your knees,' they yelled...Even so, Drury Lane was wrecked by riots in 1743, 1750, 1755, 1763, 1770 and 1776...Bread & food riots were common, not least because they were successful..._

_Minorities were tempting targets. Methodists were treated as cockshies..., as were homosexuals, witches, bawds and Frenchmen...Fear of popery sparked the Gordon Riots in London in 1780...Prejudice against Dissenters, especially Unitarians, led to insults...and attacks on their property, particularly in the 1790s..."_

_And on witchcraft in particular:_

_"The debonair contrasted their own rationality with the wild passions of the herd...The well-bred looked down on yokels, with their quaint speech & irrational folklore...Above all, polite society finally ceased to believe in the reality of witchcraft, to the wrath of scriptural fundamentalists (for John Wesley, 'the giving up of witchcraft is in effect giving up the Bible.')...Magistrates became unwilling to sustain witchcraft allegations. After the 1680s no witch purge occurred, and in 1737 the witch laws were repealed, though throughout the century panicking villagers continued to take punishment into their own hands, meting out vicious and sometimes fatal lynch-law to suspected witches."_

_Thank you for reading and reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>If invited and earnestly required, these Companions make themselves knowne and familiar to Men...<em>

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies  
><em>_Robert Kirk_

**sixteen**

Her thoughts were silent to him. It was the only cause by which she had managed to initially surprise him for, in the distraction of his search, he mistook the tempting scent upon the air with that of the ill-tempered bull safely confined behind sturdy fence beams. Only upon hearing the soft voice tinged with unmistakable sweetness had he turned, eyes wide with uncharacteristic surprise.

"No, you are a gentle thing…"

His expression of surprise had quickly shifted to one of confusion, an emotion to which he was equally unaccustomed to experiencing. For he had passed near the very spot where the young woman was standing, and while animals generally demonstrated unease in his presence, the bull had been particularly agitated, snorting and stamping its feet, giving Edward the impression it would charge the fence at the least provocation. Only now, the bull was allowing its nose to be stroked, as docile as a lamb.

How could Edward resist investigating, if only to discern the thoughts of a girl who apparently felt no fear in the presence of aggressive, threatening animals—and appeared to have some measure of control upon their manner?

However, upon drawing near, he found only silence. No whisper of a memorized shopping list, as the basket over her arm indicated she might be reciting. No murmur of vague daydreaming, longing to be somewhere other than this desolate coastal path on such a clouded day. No litany of prayer as some travelers fell into due to the dangers of the roads.

He sensed her stiffen with expectation and should have darted into the surrounding trees to escape her notice. But he could not help being intrigued that she anticipated his presence at all. When she had turned, first startled and then undeniably flustered, he had felt a sense of expectation, certain he would hear her thoughts when she replied to his apologetic greeting.

But there was nothing. No swift rehearsal or rejection of words, no indication of her reaction to his appearance—though he could tell she was fascinated, brown eyes wide and cheeks faintly tinted with pink. To her credit, she managed to recover swiftly from her surprise and reply to his polite queries. It was only when he fabricated a swift lie to explain his lack of horse that the fascination faded and she had swiftly turned, prepared to continue on her way without a backward glance.

It was his downfall. How had she detected his lie? How was she capable of escaping the unease he often engendered in her kind, her manner perfectly polite until he had attempted to deceive her? And how could he watch her walk away without attempting to know more?

Edward knew his behavior to be reckless. That, in lingering in the sleepy hamlet, he was risking attracting undue notice; it was impossible that a foreigner of his visible wealth could do any less. He knew that he risked drawing undue notice to her in paying her such attentions, and that such behavior had had terrible repercussions in the recent past. But he knew himself to be selfish and feckless, and initially felt no remorse at his actions.

Yet, with each encounter with Miss Isabella Swan, this uncharacteristic emotion also became one with which he grew slowly acquainted. For it was impossible, in the face of her unaffected manner, kind character, and frequently amusing conversation, to desire anything but to know her better. He did not find himself growing bored or distracted as he had so often before, struggling to feign interest in her concerns, with no thought for what repercussions she might suffer upon his departure. And the more he came to know her, surprising her beneath a sunny sky surrounded by wildflowers, or distracting her from enchanting wild birds at her fingertips, he found himself realizing he must consider the repercussions of continuing their acquaintance. What damage would he inflict by bringing her under his sway without the knowledge of his true nature? What risk did he take by simply being in her presence, forced to flee at the slightest inadvertent temptation?

Despite the dawning realization that he must leave before too much damage had been done, though he made every preparation to depart and break any acquaintance with her and those she knew, he found he could not stay away. He had been shocked to find himself admitting as much to her, unable and unwilling to lie to her—and even then, striving to hear her thoughts, longing to know if it was possible she could return the sentiment.

It was for this reason, though he was miles from Mousehole, making every effort to move through a shadowed copse of woods without making a sound, that he nearly stumbled and sucked in a breath at her voice—her thoughts—echoing through his head.

_Edward._

The soft alto of her voice was unmistakable, as was the weak desperation that inundated the word.

_Edward._

Without another thought he was running, speeding as swiftly as his booted feet would carry him, whipping through the low brush and high grass, leaping fences and hedgerows.

_Edward_.

He cared not who might detect him beneath the half-circle of moon that provided the only light at this hour, despite the incredible risk of a farmer or merchant glimpsing his impossibly fast figure speeding by. He could only think of her, of reaching her side, of ensuring she did not come to harm.

The cacophony of thoughts was his first notice that he was drawing near to the source of her voice, to her—and he sought to quicken his pace upon detecting the strands of incoherent anger in those thoughts, leering and eager. Desperation was like a band around his chest, arms pumping at his sides, insensible of the straining seams of his jacket as he pushed himself harder, faster, unwilling to fail her.

He felt no relief when the wild, violent thoughts transitioned to audible voices, the air tinged with the sharp scent of alcohol, his arms rising as he cracked through low branches and boughs. For he could see her frightened face in their thoughts, lit only by the flickering torches they still held, leaning eagerly towards the black waters of a deep spring.

There was no pause in his momentum as he reached the clearing, his feet transitioning soundlessly from land to water as he crossed to the side of the man who he instantly knew to be the leader of the mob. Though some of the crowd had fallen back at Edward's sudden appearance, eyes wide and fearful, the man was staring intently at the water before him while impatiently demanding a torch.

Edward recognized the man from the Penzance assembly ball but wasted no time in dwelling on the recollection of their meeting; it was enough to see the memory of Isabella's dress fisted in the man's hand, and to feel his satisfaction at seeing her sink beneath the water of the spring. Edward lifted him by his throat in one smooth motion, distantly registering the gasps and few brave shouts of the remaining men on the shore. Without another thought, Edward twisted his wrist, neatly snapping the man's neck.

Then he was beneath the water, eyes scanning the murky depths, unwilling to believe he could be too late. Despite the darkness, her figure was unmistakable; the white fabric of her gown undulated around her frame, eerie and almost bright to his gaze, partially lit by the few hesitating torch bearers on the shore as well as the moonlight above. Her head was bowed, her features hidden from his gaze, loose tendrils of chestnut hair unfurling in a haunting halo.

In an instant, she was in his arms, his boots finding purchase upon the silty bottom of the spring before spearing to the surface. He did not spare a glance for the limp body floating in the shallows, nor the lone drover now standing frozen and stunned among the shadowed trees, a sputtering torch dangling loosely from one hand.

Edward's gaze was fixed on her, on her pale cheeks and blue-tinged lips, unable to allow relief to envelop him in this single moment of hesitation on the muddy shore—for though he could feel and hear the insistent beat of her heart, her chest did not rise and fall with steady breaths. He began to bow, intending to lower her to the ground to better press the water from her lungs—but Isabella abruptly gasped and sputtered, chest heaving as she coughed up clear water, eyes wide as she gasped for breath.

It was as if the world gained light and sound again, the joy and relief he felt unmatched by any emotion he could ever recall experiencing. Quickly, he tore the ropes from her wrists before gathering her close to his chest.

Her lids fluttered and he resisted the urge to stroke her cheek, knowing he could not linger in this place.

"Edward…"

"Hold tight, Isabella," he responded softly. Then they were speeding through the darkness, a fleeting shadow beneath the half-moon's glow.

Isabella was too dazed to do more than cling to him, eyes tightly shut against the blur of the countryside speeding by. She was half certain she was dreaming, that at any moment she would awake beneath the weight of her sheets, chilled from having left the window of her bedchamber open to the late spring night. Or, if she was not dreaming, perhaps she was dead, for she could imagine no other instance in which she would find herself in the arms of Edward Maçon, the wind rushing in her ears, the sweet scent of him filling her senses.

It was only when the world ceased moving that she stirred, for the sudden cessation of the howl of the wind was abrupt, the silence unnerving. She struggled to open her eyes and became certain she was dead as darkness was replaced by darkness, her head pounding as she tried to make sense of her circumstances. But she could understand nothing for the silence was abruptly filled by the sound of a great rustle and flap, as if every bird in the vicinity was flying away, the indignant hiss and screech of an owl sounding above them all.

His name was on her lips, but he spoke first, drawing her from the fog of noise and sensation.

"Isabella?"

She shivered and thought to herself that she should not be surprised to be chilled in death; though she had loathed to see her mother so changed after the life had faded from her eyes, she had dutifully taken part in the vigil with Sheil…and even grasped Renée's cold hand one last time when the undertaker had arrived to take her body away.

"Isabella?" There was an urgency to Edward's voice that seemed out of character with his typically amused and diffident demeanor; it only added to her confusion. What could be urgent in death?

"Isabella." Her name was a hiss upon an exhale of breath, the distress in the sound finally bringing her to raise her head from his chest. "You are bleeding."

"I—" Her head pounded as she fought to hold her gaze steady. It was too dark to make out his expression, her pupils struggling to focus. "I am?"

"Can you stand?" It was a plea and she found herself nodding, uncertain why he should sound so tormented but longing to do what she could to alleviate his distress.

"I'm not dead," she whispered as he shifted her weight, lowering her to the ground with trembling hands. Though she suspected he was weary from having carried her so far, she could not help leaning into his arms, unsteady upon the tangle of roots beneath her feet. Her gaze rose to the shadowy branches of the enormous oak above, a wedge of moon glowing through the leafy boughs.

"No," Edward quietly agreed. "You are not dead." He lifted his hand and she sensed his fingers hovering inches from her temple, like the shadow of a bird in her peripheral vision. "But you are bleeding." The tormented note had returned to his voice, the words low and imbued with a meaning she could not understand.

Isabella's gaze fell and her eyes sank shut as the motion caused her head to swim. "They were throwing—" But she could not finish the sentence, trembling with the horror of the memory. Her eyes flared wide as she thought of the sharp pain that had stung her legs and shoulders, and the terror she'd felt upon realizing the mob had begun to throw stones; as if sensing her rising fear and panic, Edward pulled her close, his hands gentle as he stroked her hair. "How could they?" she whispered, unable to believe that she was alive, unable to believe that she had somehow survived. That she stood shivering and chilled through, every breath burning her throat, forced the reality of her survival home.

"Shh," Edward's voice was a soothing murmur and she felt the drift of his lips against her temple, as close as she'd once longed him to be. "I will not allow anyone to hurt you." The words were low and forceful, and she could not doubt in that moment that he would endanger himself on her behalf. She exhaled with a burst of relief, for in addition to realizing she was alive, she also began to see that she was safe.

"I promise," Edward's lips moved against her temple as he spoke, the softest sensation. "You will never come to harm with me." In that moment, she did not know that this promise was as much for himself as it was for her. She simply nodded with imperfect understanding, then abruptly froze as he unexpectedly hissed, "Be still."

Though she did not understand the cause, she understood the seriousness of the command, her hands closing into tight fists where they rested against his chest, muscles tense.

"Be very still," he whispered.

Isabella did as he bid, breath held in her lungs, gaze fixed and unmoving upon the faint white of his cravat, visible even in this shadowy gloom. She did not flinch or shift as his lips returned to her temple, indescribably gentle, like velvet against her skin. She did not exhale as his lips shifted, drifting against her hair, a whisper of movement. But she could not help her eyes sinking shut as his lips returned to her temple and the sensation transitioned, growing damp and slick, a bewildering mix of heat and cold against her skin.

Something curled in her belly and though she dreaded failing him, she could not help swaying where she stood, her legs weak and faltering. "Don't move," his voice was a desperate growl and she felt the firm grip of his hands around her upper arms, striving to keep her still.

Isabella trembled with the effort of obeying him, breath panting past her lips as his damp kiss dragged down her temple to her cheek, following the curve of her jaw to the slope of her throat. She could feel the blood surging in her veins, her body suddenly hot despite the clinging cold of wet fabric against her skin. Though he had commanded her to be still, though his hands were still gripping her arms, Isabella could not keep from swaying, sinking towards him. The faintest moan passed her lips, her cheeks blooming with the intimacy of his touch.

Under circumstances more typical, Isabella knew she never would have allowed such liberties. Given Edward Maçon's prior conduct, she had no doubt that he never before would have dared to attempt such liberties. But the world had been upended from the moment Mr. Eldritch crashed to the ground, all thought of customs and courtesies gone in the wake of her assault and near death at Tiller's spring. Though she felt a tendril of mortification at her response to his embrace, the shock of her circumstances barely allowed her to absorb the present moment, much less generate a reaction more appropriate to a parlor or assembly hall; it was enough to register that she was alive, that the moon was half-full, that the hair against her neck was wet and cold. She could give no thought or explanation to how her rescuer was able to move so quickly, why he had stopped almost as abruptly, or why he chose that moment to take her into his arms.

Even had she been able to untangle such a knot of questions, she had no time to gather her reasoning abilities. For the world was swept from beneath her feet, and they were rushing through the darkness once again.

She was uncertain of the passage of time, her face hidden against the damp wool of his coat, her eyes tightly shut against the roar and rush of the wind whipping past. It was only when she sensed his pace slow that she stirred, unaware at first that there was any change to his speed—only recognizing that her ears discerned sounds other than the wind, and that the world had somehow grown brighter, lit by something other than the faint glow of the moon above. Sensing her stir, Edward spoke. "We are nearly there."

Isabella instinctively tightened her arms around his neck, finding it impossible to believe there could be any destination where she should be entirely safe. "Where?" she asked, unaware of the fright in her voice.

"Porthleven."

It was then that she realized the sounds she was hearing were familiar: the restless shuffle and stamp of horses stabled for the night, the slap and slosh of the ocean against vessels moored in the harbor, the faint sound of a dog's bark as it lunged against its restraining chain.

"Porthleven?" But it was miles past Mousehole and even Penzance, much too far for Edward to have carried her the entire journey. Had they rested while she faded in and out of her senses? She could not recall dozing, nor any instance in which he had stopped other than to pull her into his arms, his lips at her brow and throat.

Isabella's cheeks blazed at the memory, momentarily distracting her from the manner in which Edward was darting down narrow lanes, hugging close to the walls of houses and shops, ducking beneath windows which glowed with faint candle light. She sensed him stop and start but could not bring herself to drag her gaze from her own figure, from the cling of wet muslin to her legs, her body curled close to his. The sight brought back memories of glancing down in the same manner after Mr. James had offered to lend her his cloak, and her embarrassment at seeing her own inadvertent immodesty—before he had reached for her arm with a fierce grip, blue eyes ablaze with outrage and entitlement.

Isabella closed her eyes, chilled with the realization that this had been the first step on a path that had brought her to this improbable moment. While she had always scoffed at Sheil's claim that Mr. James had any interest in her person, it was undeniable that her disregard for his attentions had fed his desire to see her punished. She could not help trembling at the thought of the cold water closing over her head, glancing up to Edward's pale, intent features with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"I'm not dead," she whispered, struggling to accept the information anew.

"No," Edward replied, the word grim. He did not glance down for his gaze was focused on something before them, his lips a thin line. "We're here—hold tight."

Isabella did not question the need for this, simply lacing her fingers behind his neck as she buried her face against his chest. Her heart caught in her throat as she sensed the air rush past, as if he'd leapt from a great height—only as she opened her eyes, certain she would find herself descending into the ocean itself, she saw that they had risen rather than fallen. Edward's feet were firmly planted on the steeply pitched roof of a building.

"Mr. Maçon!" she gasped, the words an alarmed whisper. What fresh impossibility must she now accept?

But he was unmoved by her mix of awe and fear; it was as if, now that they were arrived, he had regained the amusement and diffidence that had always marked his manner. "I'm 'Monsieur Maçon' now, am I?" he lightly asked, a smile playing over his lips. "Was I not 'Edward' only moments ago?"

He was crossing the roof on light feet, as if the mossy shingles, grayed with damp and time, were no more difficult to traverse than a perfectly even floor.

"I—" Isabella began, flustered and confused not only by the impossibility of what he was doing, easily carrying her over the rooftop of an unfamiliar building, but by the sense of his words. Was he not right? If this was not a dream, and she was not dead, had he not just saved her life? Was she not in his arms because he had somehow rescued her, freeing her from her binds, dragging her from beneath the waters of Tiller's spring?

"Oh, I understand all too well," Edward continued as he bowed before a dormer, shifting her in his arms to allow one free hand to pry at the window. "Manners are often forgotten in moments of high emotion." His voice was light as he ducked through the window, cradling her close to prevent her head brushing against the frame.

Though the room was blacker than night, he navigated the darkness as though he could easily see, darting past furnishings Isabella could not discern before gently setting her upon the soft counterpane of a wide bed. "I had hoped," he added, the amusement dying from his voice, "that with my last visit to you we had reached an understanding."

His call may as well have been a century prior for how distant it seemed. But Isabella stilled at the memory of the words he'd spoken that day, her gaze lifting to search in the dark for his invisible figure. _My intentions are honorable. They could be nothing else where you are concerned. _She recalled how swiftly he had crossed the sitting room, as if he were revealing something of himself—and also perhaps trying to frighten her away.

Isabella shook her head, wide eyes falling to her lap as she struggled to reconcile the manner in which she was raised with her current impossible circumstances. Did she have time to fret over correct forms of address and chaperones if a mob might be gathering in the public houses of Mousehole even now? She shook her head again. Edward had saved her life and very little else mattered besides that truth.

She was drawn from these thoughts by the almost inaudible sound of fabric against fabric, as if he was sifting through garments; the quiet click of a trunk closing confirmed this supposition. Mr. Maçon's voice was a quiet whisper from across the room as he explained, "I apologize for refraining from lighting a candle but I would prefer to exercise the utmost caution."

Isabella peered through the darkness, unable to make out anything but for the vague outlines of furniture along the walls, the fire utterly extinguished, the faint half-moon beyond the window having fallen behind dense clouds. "Caution?" she faintly repeated the word, uncertainty apparent in her voice.

"I would rather the other lodgers here at the inn remain ignorant of your presence," he replied. "I have no sense as of yet what we may have left in our wake, and it may presently be for the best if your whereabouts remain unknown." He paused. "Your safety is my only concern."

Isabella began to shiver with the renewed realization that whatever ignorant superstition had led to her persecution that night, the danger was not entirely abated. The survivors of the fishermen who had died at sea might still call for her blood, and with Mr. Eldritch dead, there was no one to defend her. Her gaze was blind though her pupils had begun to adjust to the light; she did not react when Edward loomed out of the dark, his pale face visible in the gloom of the chamber.

All seriousness had returned to his voice. "I must leave and make the pretense of arriving belowstairs—making a great fuss and ordering supper. This will ensure that no one suspects you are with me." Isabella nodded, slowly coming to understand the deception he intended; though she could not hear voices in a common room belowstairs, she did not doubt other lodgers were still awake at this hour and drowsing over their final tankards of ale.

"When I return, I will have a candle to light the chamber." He paused again, and she felt his hands briefly touch her own, a fleeting, reassuring motion. "Though I do not have a change of clothing for you now, you must undress before you become more chilled." His voice was dry as he added, "It will have done me no good to have saved your life if you only fall ill later." He glanced to the bed behind her, "Wrap yourself in a sheet—or put on one of my shirts. But I beg you, do not linger in your gown."

Isabella nodded, struggling for focus; a thousand thoughts ricocheted through her head as she sought to reconcile herself with her new circumstances. She was alone with Mr. Maçon without even Sheil's distant presence as a safe guard. But what matter was her reputation when it had not saved her from the attack of Mr. James and his mob? What was more, she reminded herself as her lips settled into a resolved line, she had no doubt as to Mr. Maçon's honor.

As he crossed to the window, she lifted shaking hands to the ties at her gown—but she could not help her gaze following his figure, watching as he gracefully stepped through the window and out onto the roof as easily as if he were climbing into a carriage. He glanced back as if sensing her gaze, and though she could not make out his features, she saw his hand briefly lift in a wry salute before he flitted down the shingles and disappeared over the ledge.

Isabella inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to question how such a thing was possible—for how could it be possible that lightening had struck at the exact moment she'd most needed to break free from Mr. James' grip? How had her grandmother known the precise placement of the letter Renée had left beneath the floorboards of her bedchamber? Why should she feel such certainty that whatever magical force or dark sorcery allowed Edward Maçon to cross miles of countryside in minutes and leap onto rooftops, she had no reason to fear him or his intentions?

And so she bid herself to focus upon the tangled ties behind her neck, snarled and soaking wet, fumbling with stiff fingers to loosen the knots. She did not realize she was holding her breath until the knot came loose, lips parting with a relieved gasp. The abrupt recollection of the water closing over her head, legs kicking against damp skirts, lips sealed against the dark water, returned with vivid clarity. "How could they?" she asked of no one, tears in her voice.

"How could they?"

But she must do as Edward had asked, and struggled to re-focus her attention upon her wet gown, tugging at the sleeves and shoving the clinging fabric from her hips. But it was no use. When Edward returned, a lit candle in his hand, he found Isabella with her hands before her face, attempting to wipe away despairing tears, her gown in a wadded pool at her feet.

Edward swiftly set the candle aside and crossed to her side, taking her into his arms without hesitation. Isabella came undone the moment she felt the reassurance of his touch, curling against his chest and shaking with the force of her sobs. "How could they?" she whimpered.

But Edward did not speak, his expression dark as he held her close. A dozen responses cascaded through his mind but he knew none would be of comfort to her; he could tell her that humans were simple and brutal and it was always a risk to raise their suspicions. He could try to explain that she was winsomely lovely and undeniably different, too different to pass through this world without notice. Lies might pass his lips in an effort to assure her all would be well, but he saw no point in such fruitless deception. Instead, he simply held her until her tears began to subside, gently stroking her hair and breathing in the sweet scent of her, floral and unaffected by the watery depths where she had nearly drowned.

When her last hiccup had pulsed against his chest, Edward raised his hands to her shoulders and stepped back a pace; his dark gaze raked her pale, tear-streaked face, wishing yet again that he could discern her thoughts. For he was uncertain whether his next words would appear unfeeling and cruel—or whether his attention to needful details would prove a helpful distraction from her despair.

Her gaze lifted to his, eyes large and glistening with tears freshly shed; and though her hair was a tangle of tendrils clinging to her cheeks and partially pinned at her nape, her pallor chalky white with fear and cold, her shoulders bare but for the straps of her chemise, he could see the implicit trust in her expression.

Her gaze did not waiver as she listened to him quietly explain that a maid would be arriving shortly, likely carrying a tray of cold food and warm cider. She simply nodded as he added that he had asked for a bath to be drawn, and a manservant would likely be upon the maid's heels. "They will have no notion of your presence if you are behind the screen." He nodded to the painted panels behind which he had changed a short time before, despite the concealing darkness of the room. Understanding was apparent in Isabella's expression, and she nodded in turn before obediently retreating behind the screen, her damp petticoat lifted in shaking hands.

When the knock sounded upon the chamber door, Edward did not immediately respond, uncharacteristically lost in the distraction of listening to Isabella Swan's swiftly beating heart. He could sense her fear despite her unhesitating adherence to his requests. Yet, despite this fear, there was no muffled sobs or labored breathing to indicate her presence, demonstrating her fortitude in the wake of all that had occurred that night.

His gaze fell to the sodden dress crumpled upon the floorboards, pushing away the urge for the thousandth time that night to seek out every man who had been present around that spring and ending their lives as brutally as they had threatened to end Isabella's. But he shook his head, certain neither vengeance or violence would save Isabella now, that concealment and flight were the only options; and, as he listened to the slowing beat of her heart, he knew his gentle captive would never approve of such a bloody plan. Quickly, he stooped and gathered the wet garment in one hand before crossing to the bed and thrusting it beneath the frame.

Then, with a quickly drawn breath, he turned and loudly marched towards the door, greeting the maid standing upon the threshold with his broadest, most charming smile.


	17. A Thousand Feelings

_Thank you for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>Indeed, my dear Sir, I thought I should have fainted; so great was my emotion, from<em>_ shame, vexation, and a thousand other feelings, for which I have no expressions._

_Evelina, or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**seventeen**

Isabella rather wished that she would faint. It was quite disconcerting that given the events of the past several hours, she should remain fully conscious and unable to attribute anything that had occurred to a dream.

Her countenance reflected this dismay as she regarded the steaming copper tub angled towards the blazing fire with a dubious gaze. By the light of the fire as well as the tapers now burning on the small table next to the bed, she could see the bedchamber was likely the finest at the inn. The wood floors were scattered with small rugs deeply fringed in what her toes determined must be the softest of silk; the bed was wide and curtained in patterned damask; a massive oil panting depicting an exuberant pack of hounds hunting a wild-eyed stag hung above the blazing fire; the bed, wash stand and other furniture were richly polished mahogany; and the dressing screen behind which she had been hiding was brightly painted with blooming flowers in yellow, gold and red.

She suspected a sitting room adjoined the bedchamber given its richness but she had no desire to explore its contents; any action which put her at closer quarters with the common areas of the inn filled her with misgivings, unwilling to risk the slightest chance of discovery.

For Edward had made every effort to ensure she was not disturbed at her bath, asking the manservant and maid to stoke the fire high and, if at all possible, to retrieve the tub in the morning. The servants had acquiesced to these requests before quitting the room, but Isabella had not dared peek from behind the screen in the instance that she had somehow misheard their departure.

"It is safe to come out now."

Isabella was uncertain of the reason for her slow withdrawal from the shadowed corner behind the screen. Perhaps it was fear, wondering if the servants might pop back through the door at any moment. Or perhaps it was embarrassment, for she knew her appearance to be bedraggled and immodest, her damp shift clinging to her skin, her petticoat muddy and wet. Her gaze was fixed upon her feet as she slowly crossed the thick carpets, struggling to understand why Edward continued to help her.

But Edward may as well have been in the drawing room of a grand house for the attention he paid her appearance, his manner formal and courteous as he gestured to the bath before the crackling fire.

"I pray you take advantage of the comforts available here."

Isabella swallowed. "I—thank you."

"There is no need." Edward shook his head, his gaze lingering upon her features before dropping to his hands. "I will depart shortly and allow you your privacy. You have a valise—something for traveling?"

It took her several seconds to understand his meaning. "At the cottage." All embarrassment and fear fell away as she thought of Sheil, her cheeks growing pale with worry. Was her elderly nursemaid roaming the countryside even now, desperate to find her endangered charge?

"I will see to your things—as well as your companion."

Isabella's gaze grew wide with renewed appreciation, lips parting with the desire to thank him. "H-how can I—you are too kind," she stuttered. "I cannot begin to think—"

"Please do not concern yourself," Edward cut off her garbled words, his voice smooth as he raised a gloved hand. "It is the very least I can do."

But why her safety should continue to be his burden to carry was not clear, and a frown danced over Isabella's brow that he would not allow her to express her gratitude.

"I am uncertain when I shall return, so please retire as soon as you wish—I expect you are quite weary and would prefer that you rest." He paused. "We can discuss matters in further detail in the morning."

Isabella nodded slowly. "Very well," she quietly replied. This time, she did not watch as he climbed through the chamber window and disappeared over the roof, too preoccupied by her thoughts to pay his extraordinary abilities any mind.

Isabella could not recall the last instance in which she had done more than bathe with the aid of a pitcher of cold water and a rough towel. It was far too great a demand of Sheil given Mrs. Hammet was often gone before the sun had set, the labor of fetching pail after pail of heated water more than her elderly companion could manage. But the copper tub before her had been ably filled with water fetched from the inn's kitchen belowstairs while Isabella strived to remain as silent as possible behind the screen. The luxury of it seemed almost as impossible as the savage attack she had suffered, or Edward's bewildering journey across miles of countryside in mere minutes.

But as she continued to fail to faint, she realized the hot water was likely growing cool and she was wasting precious minutes hoping for her senses to fail her. Quickly, before she could allow herself to worry about a maid knocking at the door, or a mob from Mousehole appearing in the inn's common room belowstairs, she discarded her petticoat and corset and clambered into the tub.

The warm water was a luxurious shock, her eyes flaring wide, her muscles momentarily tightening before she abruptly relaxed, a deep sigh bursting past her lips. She had last experienced such an indulgence as a child, when their servants had numbered more than two and her mother had still been alive. She had only ever sea bathed since then, and only rarely. Isabella's eyes sank shut, allowing the memories to take her back, back beyond this terrible day and everything that had led up to it.

The sea had been a steady pulse, beating against the secluded inlet where she had convinced Sheil to accompany her, eager to plunge into the water on this warm summer's day. It was a safe distance from town, for she knew there were similar beaches near Mousehole where the village inhabitants could sometimes be found in various states of undress, heedless of any passerby. But here, far below the sheer face of the cliffs, with no path to the sea but for the one where Sheil stood guard, arms crossed, her features grim beneath the brim of her bonnet, Isabella could disrobe to her shift and be relatively certain she would not risk discovery.

The water had been bracingly cold, but she had laughed at the shock of it, lifting her arms high as the waves beat against her legs. She had turned back to the shore, smiling widely at Sheil's shadowed face, then gasped as a high wave swept her feet from beneath her, the water closing over her head.

Isabella's eyes flew open and she blindly reached for the ball of soap and rag resting upon a small stool placed near the tub. She tried to push away thoughts of the sea, or the spring, or any watery depth as she scrubbed fiercely at her skin.

It was then that she saw the faint marks, like stars in the lightest violet, lavender and even red, scoring the flesh of her thighs and belly. Her brow furrowed before smoothing as she realized what the marks were, the evidence of where rocks and pebbles had dashed against her skin. She raised a trembling hand to her temple, finding the tender bump which had left her dazed and disoriented…and bleeding. Fresh tears speared her eyes, and her chin dropped to her chest as she ceased fighting the recollection of the night's events.

It was some time before she pulled herself from the water, her muscles aching, the tips of her fingers puckered with damp. She carefully dried herself with the linen towel the maid had left for this purpose before positioning another log upon the embers of the crackling fire. It had grown late enough that she began to wonder whether Edward had succeeded in finding Sheil, and what he had learned upon returning to Mousehole in his unnaturally fast manner.

Though she felt no hunger, she forced herself to nibble a few bites of the cheese and bread brought by the maid, slowly sipping the sweet cider that accompanied the tray. When she'd had her fill, she crossed to the wide bed and tucked beneath the counterpane. Though she arranged the blankets and sheets about her figure and lay back against the pillows, inhaling deeply in the hopes of catching Edward's sweet scent, she did not fall asleep; her eyes remained wide as she strained for the faintest sound of his return.

She could not be certain when she finally drifted into a dreamless sleep, for it seemed she was staring with restless worry at the ceiling one moment, then shooting awake the next, blinking rapidly as she registered the faint dawn filling the shadowed chamber. "Edward?" It was the first word to escape her lips, her hands clutching the sheet close to her chest not with modesty, but with fear. For what if he'd been caught, failing to return after encountering another mob at Swan Cottage?

"I'm here."

Isabella exhaled with relief as her eyes found his figure bowed upon the stool next to the smoldering fire, his hand beneath his chin, his expression inscrutable.

"I trust you slept well?" His manner was as formal as though they stood in a parlor accompanied by a chaperone rather than a shadowed bedchamber; Isabella glanced down to her rumpled shift and the sheets covering her legs before lifting a self-conscious hand to the tangle of her hair.

Registering his question, she slowly shook her head, an honest admission. "I know you wished me to rest but I waited for you—I could not sleep."

A faint smile crossed his lips before his expression abruptly grew grave again. "I hope I can allay your fears. Your companion is well, if concerned for your welfare." His lips curved again, recalling Sheil's ire as he had freed her from the cupboard where she'd been locked away. Though she'd been reassured by Edward's explanation that Isabella was safe, her ire had returned upon learning that he would not reveal where he had taken her charge.

"She was not hurt?" Isabella leaned forward, her gaze anxious.

Edward shook his head. "Not in the slightest." He paused, a slight smile crossing his lips. "Perhaps her pride may have been bruised at her inability to protect you."

But Isabella could see no humor in the dark recollection of Sheil's wild attempts to stave off the crowd. "I tried to convince her to go with Mrs. Hammet. I was certain there would be trouble…" Her voice faltered as her gaze fell to the sheets tangled about her legs. "Did she tell you that Mr. Eldritch died?"

Edward nodded before answering. "Yes." Her gaze rose as he continued, "Though I am convinced, like Miss Cadwallader, that you could not possibly be at fault for his death."

"His horse reared," Isabella faintly explained, her eyes growing distant as she recalled the horrifying sight.

"Which only supports the idea that you could not be at fault. Animals are soothed by your presence rather than agitated."

Isabella inhaled sharply, her gaze flying to his features to hear him speak the truth so bluntly. But Edward seemed unaware of the impact of his words, his voice light as he continued. "But it appears that what I or Miss Cadwallader believe may be of no import."

Isabella's brow furrowed with renewed worry. "The men Mr. James gathered—there were not very many—"

Edward interrupted before she could continue. "Ah, but a few drovers, a few fishermen—this is of no concern to me." His voice grew dark, "As I understand it, the gentleman who is Justice of the Peace for the parish may have reason to think unfavorably of you."

Isabella paled before swallowing. In the chaos and panic of yesterday's events, she had not thought to consider this fact. Her voice was a whisper when she replied. "Yes."

Edward's attention was on his hands as he continued, as though he was examining the stitching of his gloves and finding the workmanship lacking. "The Justice of the Peace has very little to occupy him in such a quiet setting but I understand Captain Hale takes his duties very seriously."

Isabella swallowed again, her gaze flitting about the room with fresh panic. Would Captain Hale see reason? Or would he be swayed by his daughter's enmity for the Swan family's role in her disfigurement? Isabella's voice was weak when she spoke, "I should not have involved you in this."

"On the contrary," Edward smoothly replied, "I vastly prefer to involve myself over the alternative." He nodded down to the valise at his feet. "I have brought as many of your things as Miss Cadwallader saw fit to pack. If you are intent upon rising, please feel free to dress and we can discuss matters in the adjoining sitting room."

"Very well," Isabella whispered in response.

He departed the room adroitly but she could not bring herself to leave the safe warmth of the bed for several minutes. Finally, knowing that hesitation could not possibly stave off reality, she threw back the covers and crossed to the valise on bare feet.

She was relieved to find not only a spare corset, shift, and several dresses and petticoats stuffed inside, but an embroidered reticule filled with hair pins, an ivory comb, and the small silver vial where Sheil kept their rarely used hartshorn. "If only she knew how I wished I could faint," Isabella murmured, a rueful smile crossing her lips. Then, with a resolved sigh, she pulled a morning gown from the valise and shook it out, before gathering the other things she would need to dress.

A short time later, she paused before the only door to the chamber, her hands nervously fisted in her skirts. Should she knock, any servant who might be assisting Mr. Maçon would know he had mysterious company. But if she simply opened it, she might present an equal surprise to anyone who happened to be in the room, perhaps cleaning the grate or delivering a breakfast tray. She gnawed her lip for several seconds, the pace of her heart steadily climbing, before she was startled from her indecision by the door abruptly swinging open.

"Isabella?" Edward Maçon stood upon the threshold, his gloved hand upon the latch, one dark brow quizzically lifted. "You may join me whenever you like." He turned to the empty sitting room and gracefully crossed to a delicate walnut chair with a cane seat; it matched a writing table on the far wall, a curtained window directly above. "I dislike servants hovering and rarely require them beyond the necessities."

Isabella nodded to his retreating back before stepping further into the room. It was apparent this room was as richly fitted as the bedchamber from which she'd come; colorful rugs covered the wide floor boards, a cushioned set of armchairs flanked the fireplace, and a gilt framed portrait hung above the empty grate. She wondered whether it was a member of the innkeeper's family, or a dignitary that had passed through the town and honored the inn with his presence.

"I can order a tray of breakfast things if you please."

"Oh, no," Isabella shook her head, her hands briefly fisting more tightly in her skirts. "I am not at all hungry." She bit her lip. "But if you please—what did Sheil say?" She could not help her eager curiosity, eyes wide and anxious.

Edward nodded, his expression registering no offense at this quick shift in subject. He inclined his head to one of the armchairs before the fireplace and she obediently sat; he then sank into the walnut chair angled away from the writing table.

"As I said, she was unhurt and only concerned for your welfare." He paused considering the floor for a brief moment. "While she was certain you could have nothing to do with Mr. Eldritch's accident, she was concerned Captain Hale, as Justice of the Peace, would not hold the same opinion." His gaze rose, dark and calm. "I also share her concern that Captain Hale may not wait for the assizes—that he may see fit to imprison you on petty charges until the assizes sit, at which point witnesses will have been cajoled and stories aligned to your detriment."

Isabella could not help her lower lip trembling, her eyes slowly growing wide with horror as he spoke. "You think—you think it's possible he could be so unjust?"

Edward shook his head but his expression remained unmoved. "I have no cause to believe he will be just or unjust." His brow briefly furrowed, his gaze flitting away before returning to her distressed countenance. "I acknowledge this is the worst possible outcome—that you may be unfairly held and tried." He paused again, and his gaze hardened. "The best possible outcome is you are tried and found innocent."

Isabella sucked in a breath as her gaze fell to her nervously knotted hands. Edward did not need to elaborate for she knew what such a trial would mean for her reputation. If the rumor of her influence upon the storm that had killed two fishermen held no traction with the more educated members of the parish, there would be no such dismissiveness if she was formally tried on charges related to Mr. Eldritch's death. Even if she were found innocent, the scandal would destroy her reputation, leaving her undeserving of the slightest signs of respect.

Isabella abruptly rose, ignoring the dizziness that accompanied the movement. She could not meet Edward's gaze, her eyes blindly fixed upon the single casement window above the writing table, the only source of light in the room. It had grown brighter as they spoke, and she could hear the distant sound of jingling harnesses mixed with rough voices; the coachmen's bugles would begin soon sounding, signaling the eminent departure of the carriages creaking into the inn's courtyard.

"I should go," she whispered.

"Isabella," Edward's voice was impatient but she did not let him finish.

"I should not have involved you. You are not my father or brother—your reputation should not be needlessly sullied."

She heard the scrape of his chair as he rose but she could not meet his gaze, turning to the empty grate of the fireplace as she raised trembling hands to her pounding head.

"The state of my reputation should not concern you," his voice was soft, almost silken.

Isabella shook her head violently, desperate for him to see that he need not be honorable. "You don't understand." She turned, facing him, pale and shaken but determined to be honest. "It was no accident you came to me."

Edward had drawn close, his expression faintly intrigued as he examined her pale features with dark, curious eyes. "I thought not," he finally responded.

Isabella forced her gaze to remain steady. She told herself there was much he already suspected, but it still felt as if she were speaking of fairies and dragons when she said the words aloud. "I can—I can do things." Her voice seemed too loud, the admission stuttered between nervous lips.

Edward simply nodded, the faintest smile crossing his lips before he wryly replied, "So I've gathered."

The air pushed from her lungs at his amused response, her gaze darting over his features with shock and dismay. "But Edward—"

It was his turn to interrupt, the words insistent, all amusement absent. "Do you truly think that if had I come upon that mob by chance, I would have allowed you to drown?" His voice grew almost harsh. "Do you think I would have allowed you to die?"

She shook her head weakly, eyes wide as she struggled to find the words. She had not meant to discount his bravery, the actions he had taken to save her. "But you could not have come upon me by chance, could you?" she desperately answered. Her voice dropped to a whisper as her defeated gaze fell to the rich carpets beneath her feet. "I called you to me."

But there was no anger or accusation in Edward's voice when he responded, only the slightest hint of curiosity. "Is that what you did?" His voice was as light, as if she were a particularly clever magician that had just explained the sleight of hand behind a confounding trick.

Isabella shook her head again, tears pricking her eyes as she struggled to explain in a manner that would not draw a wry response. She tried to find the words to convey how she had imagined him with her, calmed by the thought of him as she ceased fighting the dark water around her. Her eyes grew blind as she recalled the pulse of his name in her head, like a bell or a song, how she had longed to reach for him with her bound hands.

But she could not speak, overcome by the memory, her chin dropping to her chest as she weakly nodded.

The room was silent and she waited, her labored breath the only sound in her ears for some time. When Edward spoke, his voice had regained a silken softness. "_Devins-guerisseurs._"

Isabella's head rose, a deep line between her brows as she repeated the word in English. "Diviner healer?"

His dark head was tilted, black eyes shining as he regarded her with faint wonder. "That is what we called them in Chateauroux." He looked away and his voice grew light, as if they were discussing the weather. "I had always thought it a children's fairy tale, a way of explaining that which cannot be explained. Until…" But the words drifted into silence and she could not find the words to respond.

"But it is of no import." He turned his head back to her, his dark gaze piercing. "Do you think, Isabella Swan, that had you not called me, I would be shrugging at your demise?" He drew closer, ever graceful, his movements slow and deliberate. "When I heard your voice in my head, calling my name, I could do nothing but find you." He was inches away, his voice low. "I told you before—I cannot stay away from you."

She trembled but it was not due to fear or concern for her reputation—for she knew she had nothing to fear from him, and that her reputation was damaged beyond repair. "Mr. Maçon," his name shook as it left her lips, for her trembling was due to despair; she was filled with the pain of knowing she must not hold him to the vague promises he had made before, that he must be released from any obligation to her. "You are not my father or brother," she repeated, the words more firmly spoken.

"Of that," Edward responded, slowly lifting a gloved hand to her cheek, "I am very grateful."

Isabella could not help the tears that welled in her eyes, her desperation exacerbated by his determined refusal to see reason. "I have enchanted you!" she cried, unable to understand how he could be drawn to her still.

"Perhaps," Edward's touch was a whisper against her skin, his voice soft. He cocked his head as he spoke. "Perhaps enchantment was the reason I was distracted from my search, completely unable to do anything but investigate when I spied you giving a carrot to that foul tempered bull." He drew closer, the motion slow and deliberate, as if giving her a chance to flee. But she could not move, hypnotized by the sensation of his gloved fingertips against her cheek, raptly watching as he drew so close, he blocked out the light, his lips a caress against her brow. "Perhaps you cast a spell upon me when you tried to escape my company after somehow detecting my only lie to you."

He drew back and she could just see the black of his pupils within jet irises, dilated and fixed on her upturned face. "Was it a spell you cast when you mocked the sad horse I hired?" He slowly drew close again, his lips at her ear, his nose stirring the hair loosely pinned back there. "Or perhaps there was something magical in your demeanor when you conveyed such wisdom and charm in every conversation." His breath was a cool flutter against her skin. "No envy of your wealthy neighbors, no vanity in your beauty, no pomposity in your seriousness."

Edward drew back again and she could see the wonder had returned to his expression, the touch of his hand growing flush against her cheek, as if, through this physical contact, he could understand. "And what sorcery is it that you have never feared me? Not when I fled your company so suddenly, not when I've demonstrated again and again what I am, what I'm capable of?"

He shook his head as his hand fell from her cheek. Isabella did not breathe, watching as he turned away from her, his head bowed, his voice low. "I am enchanted but it is no spell, Isabella. Make no mistake of that."


	18. Sport of Enemies

_Thank you so much for all of the reviews! Given some of the comments__, I thought I'd share a few of the resources I found on bathing habits for that period. This historical author's blog has a fun read on the topic - word_wenches/2011/08/bathing-customs. html - that highlights how laborious drawing a bath would have been before modern plumbing. It was a chore usually left to men, and enjoyed mostly by the upper classes. I also adore the BBC series History of the Home, which is available over on YouTube - watch? v=_jddn99d5Ck - tho the series is a bit split up, part 4 of 4 on the bathroom illustrates again how laborious having a bath could be. They also go into some detail on sea bathing - and the series opens with the host pretending to use a bourdaloue! More info on bourdaloue's here: janeaustensworld. wordpress 2012/07/16/regency-hygiene-the-bourdaloue/_

_Last, there was a comment on toothbrushing (or lack thereof.) From everything I've read, it appears cleaning the teeth was a norm for the middle & upper classes though the means (and efficacy) varied. Toothpicks, chew sticks and even simply using a rag were options before the toothbrush as we know it was brought to Europe as early as the 1690s, and mass produced starting in the 1780s. Of course, dentistry was in no better position than medicine at the time - getting a cavity meant losing the tooth. More here: susannaives wordpress /2012/03/beauty-secrets-of-the-regency-lady-the-smile-that-dazzles/_

_Thanks again._

* * *

><p><em>I had no distinct ideas, but of dark and confused misery; it was all remorse and horror indeed!—Thoughts of hanging, drowning, shooting—then rage, violence, mischief, and despair, took their turns with me. My lucid intervals still worse, giving me to reflect upon what I was the hour before, and what I was likely to be the next, and perhaps for life—the sport of enemies!—the laughter of fools!—<em>

_Clarissa, or, the History of a Young Lady  
>Samuel Richardson<em>

**eighteen**

Isabella had barely heard the words he spoke after this, attempting and failing to absorb the truth of his claim. Her gaze remained blindly fixed upon the toes of her slippered feet, just visible beneath the hem of her morning gown. For what use was his enchantment when her reputation was so stained?

"I must go again, to the common room and then the coffee house. Are you certain you need no food?"

"I'll…I'll eat the rest of what's in the bedchamber," Isabella faintly replied, glancing towards the open door.

"If you're certain…"

She nodded.

There was reluctance in his voice though he spoke succinctly. "I want to ensure I'm seen and gather as much news as I can. Until we know more, I think it best your whereabouts continue to remain unknown."

She had numbly nodded but it was only after the door had quietly closed behind him that she seemed to wake from a dream. Must she stay? If she were to walk through the door now and appear in the common room below, all of the secrecy and hiding would be at an end. Perhaps Captain Hale would see reason and would find no fault in her having simply been present when Mr. Eldritch's horse reared and sent him flying to the ground. Perhaps Sheil had incited in Mr. Maçon the same needless worry she felt about every occasion, always fussing over bonnets and muddy boots and what the neighbors might think.

But Isabella's head fell as she heard Sheil's voice echo in her head, filled with outrage and indignation. _She is more Christ-like than ye…_

It was foolish, reckless and wild to forget that a mob had nearly killed her. It was madness to think that the same people who had thrown stones at her cowering figure would somehow see reason today.

Her shoulders sagged, her eyes sinking shut as the wisp of hope floated away like so much vapor. She would remain where she was, and wait for Mr. Maçon's return.

In the meantime, she restlessly paced the bedchamber and sitting room, approaching the window as close as she dared to peer into the inn's courtyard; she glimpsed hostlers and coachmen conferring, and guests in finer garb climbing in and out of various carriages. After the first hour, she became curious about what personal mark Mr. Maçon may have left on the rooms; she examined the contents of the writing table, her raised brows falling when she saw only blank foolscap, the inkwell untouched.

Quietly, glancing to the sitting room door, she returned to the bedchamber. But his trunk was closed and she could not bring herself to the invasive presumption of opening it; and she found no other personal effects in the room to give a greater sense of her rescuer's character. Finally, with a soft sigh, she slumped to the bed, dissatisfied but resolved to simply wait.

Though the institution of the coffee house had begun to decline in London, in provincial towns it was still a center of news, gossip, and bitter black drink. Edward paid his penny admission and took a seat upon a distant bench, _The London Gazette_ spread before him on a battered table, a cup of coffee cooling at his elbow. The few men present took little notice of his arrival, continuing their quiet conversations after casually nodding in his direction. It was midday before the first rumors began to trickle in along with the fishermen who had docked in the harbor for their noon meal. Edward kept his gaze trained upon the papers before him as he listened to the men at the next table, voices low and excited as they shared this latest, wild tale.

"Captain Hale was in the square at sunrise, asking for any man brave enough to join him."

"None that was with Mr. Eldritch Junior was willing to go—"

"Nay, Ned was willing, weren't he?"

"I don't trust Ned was there—fellow will claim to have been out on the water for every squall that comes through, don't he?"

"Aye, but he said t'was a black monster that rescued the witch from the water—" A third man spoke, his voice filled with fear and awe.

"And killed the young Mr. Eldritch," the first fisherman somberly added.

"Jory said t'was a demon for no creature alive could appear from nothing as it did." The man speaking slurped a mouthful of coffee. "Out of thin air, it was."

Edward's lips quirked but the motion was without humor. He continued to convincingly scan the text of the _The Political Register_, giving the appearance he found the story of William Pitt's efforts to form a coalition distinctly fascinating.

Several other men joined the fishermen at their wide table, straddling the bench and leaning forward with avid curiosity. "What is this we hear of a," the man's voice lowered to a theatrical whisper, "murder in Mousehole?"

"Aye, but which murder do ye mean?" The first grizzled fisherman replied. "Mr. Eldritch having his brains dashed out on account of that witch inciting his horse, or the younger Mr. Eldritch, who's missing and supposed dead out at Tiller's spring?"

"Ain't no doubt he's dead," the second fisherman added. "Ned saw him floating in the water, face down, with his own eyes."

"Aye, and I'm telling ye Ned will say he saw a mermaid on account of tales he learned at his mother's knee."

There were laughs but the men quickly grew serious again and began speculating as to what Captain Hale and his party might have discovered upon reaching Tiller's spring. Edward did not linger to listen, rising from his table and darting from the coffee house with a quick tilt of his hat to the owner as he passed through the door.

Though his countenance was impassive when he climbed the stairs of the inn and turned into the private rooms he'd hired less than a week prior, his gaze was stormy upon passing through the sitting room door. He was unsurprised to find Isabella restlessly pacing before the fireplace, her hands knotted into tense fists, her pale face filled with worry.

He spoke bluntly. "I fear I have made the outcome worse through my involvement."

Isabella's lips parted but several seconds passed before she found the words to speak. "But the fault is with me," she softly replied. "For was it not me who called you?"

A burst of angry air pushed past Edward's lips as he tore the hat from his head and threw it upon one of the armchairs. "If you had not called me, you would have died," he tersely replied. "How could I have desired such an outcome?" He turned away, struggling for the words that would make her see reason. Striving for calm, he continued, "While your death certainly would mean the end of your worries, your living unfortunately does not mean the same."

He rarely allowed his emotions to overcome him, but his frustration with what he'd overheard, and with himself for having succumbed to his base nature was too much. His lips thinned as he struggled again to control his anger. He must admit what he had done, whatever the result. She must know the risks she faced.

His voice grew wry, as it often did when he was attempting to control his temper. "The rumors claim a monster ripped you from the spring and bore you away—or a demon companion summoned by your witchery." He shook his head, biting back a bitter laugh. When he turned to face her, his black humor died for her eyes were dark and hollow, her cheeks empty of all blood.

His voice grew somber for he knew he must speak. "The rumors also claim this black monster is responsible for James Eldritch Junior's death."

Isabella's hand flew to her lips, her eyes growing impossibly wider as she fumbled for the chair back and weakly sank into its seat. Edward watched her, waiting for her gaze to return to him—but she simply stared numbly at the floor, her hand trembling where it covered her lips, her eyes unblinking. The silence hung around them like a shroud for some time.

"You could be hanged for saving me," she finally whispered.

"I was not recognized," Edward replied.

"You have taken an impossible burden upon your conscience!" she cried, her eyes rising to meet his, her hand falling to her lap.

Edward could not meet her gaze but he forced his voice to remain even when he replied. "If courts were just and judgments were fair, James Eldritch Junior would have hung for attempting to kill you."

"But—but…who am I to make such a decision?"

"It is fortunate you did not," Edward's gaze left the empty grate of the fireplace to meet her own. "I did."

Isabella was speechless. Her countenance was pale, eyes wide as she continued to gaze at him with a mixture of disbelief and sorrow. She could not fathom Edward's calm demeanor, his expression inscrutable, his gaze unwavering.

Her eyes sank shut, her thoughts fragmenting in the wake of this new knowledge: she thought of her father, a soldier who she knew must have injured and killed men in battle, though he never spoke of it; she thought of Connor Hammet and his father eagerly journeying to Bodmin to witness the public hanging of a forger, Connor's eyes alight with excitement at the thought of purchasing a frayed piece of the hangman's rope; she recalled Mr. Eldritch, white-haired and smiling in her front sitting room, a cup of tea balanced on his knee as he shared the latest gossip. "Mr. Wallace is said to have fled to Italy on a ship out of Bristol. But I tell you that duel was not simply because of an accusation of cheating at cards. There was bad blood between Mr. Wallace and Mr. Yorkie long before they met at dawn."

"Did they duel with pistols or swords?" Isabella had not been able to help her curiosity.

But Sheil had chosen that moment to be more concerned with polite sensibilities than gossip, her voice chiding as she spoke before Mr. Eldritch could answer. "Such questions don't become a lady! Think of poor Mr. Yorkie's family…"

Isabella's eyes slowly opened; she was unsurprised to see Mr. Maçon had not moved, his dark gaze fixed on her pale face. A thousand questions passed through her mind, wondering if Mr. James had fought, attempting to prevent any rescue from taking place. And what of the other men? Had they stood by or simply fled at Edward's appearance? Had Edward brandished a pistol or sword? None of it made sense but she slowly began to realize that rather than horror or sorrow, she mostly felt relieved.

Isabella leapt to her feet and swiftly crossed to the far wall, unable to meet Edward's gaze as she buried fisted, sweaty palms in her skirts. She longed to move within reach of the window, take hold of the latch and throw it wide—but she knew the risk of being seen by anyone in the courtyard below, that she no longer had access to these small freedoms. The air caught in her throat with the depth of her frustration. For it was suddenly as clear to her as the light of the sun beyond the window that she must leave this place, that she would only know misery if she stayed.

"I must go," the words were choked from dry lips, her eyes wide and unseeing. She felt the certainty of it as well as she knew the path that wound behind Swan Cottage, or the worn leather of her father's chair in the study, or the smell of the herbs hanging from the beams of the kitchen. Her fingers flexed, as if she could physically grasp the things that were slipping away, the familiar places and sights she would never see again.

"It is likely the only safe option," Edward's voice was somber and she realized that though his tone acknowledged the pain she felt, it was something he had known all along.

Isabella turned to face him. "And now you must leave, too." Even if he had not been recognized, she could not see him hanged for what he had done in saving her life.

Edward simply bowed his head once in silent acknowledgement.

Isabella inhaled deeply, longing to leave now, in this very moment. "But what of Sheil?"

"I intend to return to Mousehole tonight." He nodded towards the writing table. "Would you like to make a list of what she should pack for you?"

Isabella raised a hand to her head as she squeezed her eyes shut. "My mother's miniature. There are books—" But how to decide? Her mother's novels and plays brought with her from France? The fiction her father and grandfather had gradually added to the shelves over the years? She shook her head and closed her eyes, failing to see Edward's brief frown. "Nevermind. The miniature. More clothes, perhaps," she added. "I can think of nothing else."

Edward nodded. "We will remain in Porthleven tonight as an abrupt departure would likely draw attention. I will notify the innkeeper tonight that I wish to depart tomorrow."

"We…" The word was soft but her eyes were wide with fresh surprise. But his gaze was unwavering, and she could see in his expression that he would accept nothing less.

"I told you before, I will not allow anyone to hurt you." Her gaze fell to her hands, the knuckles white where her fingers knotted together. For she knew it to be true. But at what cost? She knew not what to think, how to feel, her eyes sinking shut as she struggled for calm.

"You might escape recognition with a bonnet and hood," Edward mused aloud. "You could leave by the servant's staircase and simply appear in the courtyard at dawn." His mouth twisted as he continued, his voice turning grim, "But many will see you board the post chaise with me." His departure would not escape notice and it would likely draw comment if a woman were seen to accompany him.

"Hired horses?" Isabella exhaled, opening her eyes as she forced herself to focus. She could not stay. This was her fate, to flee this place and the violence that might be committed against her person. And as she regarded Edward with a questioning gaze, waiting for his response, she could not deny the growing confidence she felt that this was the only way. "Perhaps I could leave before dawn and hire horses at the nearest stable."

Edward's lips quirked wryly. "It is difficult to find horses with any stamina that can bear me." His gaze fell, as if bracing himself for her curiosity. Isabella recalled the sad mare he'd hired in Mousehole but she was bereft of questions, unwilling to pursue that which she might not wish to know. Edward continued after she failed to speak. "A carriage is the best means of travel if we travel together."

Isabella sucked in a breath. "I do not want to travel without you."

Edward nodded solemnly. "Then you shall not."

They discussed various means of smuggling Isabella out of the inn in a manner that would not draw the notice of the other patrons for some time before landing on the option that would be witnessed by the fewest people. Isabella could not help asking, "And might I go with you—to see Sheil?"

Edward's brow furrowed. "It is not insurmountable—but it is likely the cottage is being watched and I have no sense of what might be necessary to ensure you are not harmed."

And she knew he would protect her at any cost. Her gaze fell, stricken at the thought of someone getting hurt—or killed—on her account.

"Then I will remain here," she softly answered.

After glancing to the window and noting the decline of the sun in the sky, Edward bid Isabella to conceal herself behind the dressing screen once again before calling for a servant. She listened nervously while the maid tidied the room and a manservant emptied and removed the tub; she did not emerge until Edward gave the word.

"There is a tray of food in the sitting room should you find your appetite. I will return shortly."

He was gone for a short time, speaking with the innkeeper belowstairs and arranging for a post chaise to be ready the following morning. When he returned, he found Isabella carefully arranging the few things Sheil had provided in the valise he had brought with him from the cottage. She glanced over her shoulder as she heard the tread of his boots upon the floor. "I suppose I will need to find as much room as possible if I won't be returning."

Edward found he could not reply. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to return to what had been his home that he knew he had no sense of her grief. But hadn't it been homesickness that had brought him back to France a short time ago, as disastrous as that journey had been? Hadn't he longed for something familiar, to hear the language he knew and see the land where he was born, however changed?

Finally, he simply nodded. "I will bring back as much as I can." Then, glancing to the window, he saw that the sky had grown dark enough that he could escape the inn undetected. "I will return as soon as I am able," he promised.

Isabella watched silently as he climbed through the bedchamber window, her eyes wide and unwavering as he gracefully slipped down the roof and disappeared over the ledge without a backward glance.


	19. Escape

_One note based on comments on the last chapter - I first read about the use of a hangman's noose as a good luck charm on a site devoted to the history of executions at Bodmin: jackiefreemanphotography /bodmin_executions. htm This was supported by the Penguin Guide to Superstitions of Great Britain & Ireland. A piece of the rope (the knot was apparently especially coveted) was thought to cure headache and epilepsy, and was prized as late as the Victorian era as a good luck charm for card players. _

_Thank you for reading and reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>He pays me great respect, and I see pities me; and would, perhaps, assist my escape from these dangers: But I have nobody to plead for me; and why should I wish to ruin a poor gentleman, by engaging him against his interest? Yet one would do any thing to preserve one's innocence; and Providence would, perhaps, make it up to him!<em>

_Pamela, or, Virtue Rewarded  
><em>_Samuel Richardson_

**nineteen**

A thousand leaves whispered and murmured overhead and Edward knew it was not only his senses that amplified the sound. The wind was with him tonight, the tree tops swaying with the force of its strength. He had no doubt that he would easily evade notice under circumstances more mundane, but the rough weather was an added benefit he could not deny.

The moon was obscured by clouds, a faint glow beneath a gray pall overhead; fortunately, he did not need its light to navigate the narrow sheep tracks and overgrown meadows through which he sped, his arms pumping at his sides, his senses attuned to any hint of discovery—a stray traveler, or drover returning late from the public house. But on this night, he found he need have no fear of stumbling upon a galloping rider or rattling carriage for the only humans he encountered were those lingering with a suspicious lack of destination on the roads leading from Mousehole.

Scenting sweat and pipe smoke, Edward circled the wide road that lead from Sheffield directly west of the coastal town, waiting for the pacing man to continue on his way. It took seconds to realize the man would be going no where, likely posted by Captain Hale to ensure any return by Isabella Swan would be intercepted.

Edward easily leapt a nearby fence and veered east, venturing as near Mousehole as he dared before angling south towards the coastal road. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised to distinguish a man in a cloth cap and heavy coat in the distance, leaning against the fence behind which a surly bull slumbered. Sighing, Edward veered west again, slowing his pace to ensure no snapping twigs or thud of footfalls could alert the man to his presence. It was not long before he was standing opposite Swan Cottage, the high hedge row concealing him from the man who blatantly lingered opposite the gate, a musket draped over his arm.

Unhesitating, Edward reached into the dense hedge row and cracked several branches within his gloved hand; the man at the gate swung around, the musket lifted, his voice calling out with unmistakable fear, "Who goes there?"

But Edward had already cleared the hedge row, landing in a low crouch just within the perimeter of the wrought iron fence circling Swan cottage. By the time the fearful man had swung back around, Edward had leapt again, landing atop the steeply pitched roof of the cottage. He lingered for several seconds, listening to the man in the yard below pace several feet in either distance before settling back at the gate; Edward could smell the sweat that now coated the man's skin but he gave him no further thought as he crossed the roof in a low crouch, keeping close to the slick tiles in case his boots lost traction and he was forced to use his hands. But he reached the rear of the house without incident and dropped into the back garden with only the faintest thump of his boots. He was inches from the back door but his hand faltered as he reached for the latch.

The surface of the door had been gouged with a knife, the wood ragged and pale where it had been exposed by the dull blade. He recognized the crude symbol, similar to others he'd encountered in Gravigny and Étoges, Aubenton and Guignicourt—for they always came to suspect when his kind had lingered too long.

Edward lifted the latch, forced the simple metal hook that was meant to keep the door secure, swiftly entered, and closed the door behind him. His eyes quickly found the older woman sitting upon the stool next to the low fire, and though he was jarred that she registered no surprise at his appearance, he did his best to refrain from demonstrating it.

"Is she alright?"

Sheil did not bother with pleasantries, her voice low and tinted with anger. Edward did not react to the anger for he knew it was not for him, her thoughts indistinct but clearly directed towards the blur of faces that had circled Swan Cottage the prior evening.

"Yes," he answered shortly. He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. He did not wish to be abrupt but he also did not wish to provide a lengthy answer and risk the chance of discovery should someone decide to investigate Swan Cottage more closely while they conversed.

"Ye mean to take her with ye, don't ye."

Sheil spoke before he could, the question spoken so flatly that it sounded like a statement of fact. Edward's gaze rose from the floor, watching silently as resignation, sadness and frustration danced over the older woman's features. "Yes." He responded simply, unwilling to tell her more. If she should be questioned, it would be safest for her if she knew nothing.

"But ye mean to do right by her, don't ye?" Uncertainty finally entered Sheil's voice, her faded blue eyes wide and questioning as she gazed up at the young man. Her lined features were partly lit from below by the fire, lending further solemnity to her demeanor.

Edward paused only briefly before responding. "As long as she allows me."

Sheil regarded him for a long moment, her chin dropping though her gaze remained fixed on his face. Edward knew she could very well ask him what objection Isabella could possibly hold, or express shock at the thought of Isabella rejecting him—but instead, Sheil's thoughts were given over to brief, fleeting images: Isabella's deliberately averted face, a needle forgotten in her lap; a beautiful laughing woman Edward recognized from the miniature Isabella had requested, her mismatched eyes alight as she raced to the door to greet a man in a soldier's uniform; and Isabella again, inflamed with uncharacteristic passion, eyes blazing and cheeks filled with color as she exclaimed "…I have no idea as to his intentions!" Edward could not help the curiosity that filled his eyes though he fought to conceal the emotion, turning his gaze to the floor.

Sheil mentioned nothing of her thoughts, simply giving a short laugh before rising to her feet. "I think ye have no worry of that."

She gave a cursory shake of her skirts before picking up a pewter chamberstick from the table at her side and bending to light the candle upon the embers of the fire. "I found her mother's spare valise in the old servant's room," she spoke over her shoulder. "I can use that to pack the remainder of her things—as much as ye can stand to carry."

Edward did not hesitate in following her from the kitchen to the staircase, listening as she shared what she had learned since his visit the prior night. "Captain Hale is canvassing the countryside, likely urged on by his daughter and that slag, Jessamyn Newtyn." She shook her head. "None of this would have happened if it weren't for those superstitious fishermen." She glanced over her shoulder. "I suspect ye saw that symbol on the door—such nonsense. I suppose I'm lucky they haven't burned the place down."

They reached the bedchamber and Edward lingered in the hall, unwilling to enter Isabella's room without Sheil's leave. She inclined her head, snorting dismissively, "Ye may as well come in given she's stayed with ye unchaperoned all this time."

Edward made no comment, knowing the former nursemaid was not pleased by this fact, her lips tight as she sorted through the clothes press. Seeking to change the subject and also satisfy the curiosity he knew Isabella would have upon his return, he asked, "And what will you do?"

Sheil glanced over her shoulder as she tugged several gowns from the cupboard, her lips quirking. "My dearest friend Mrs. Berty has a daughter with two small children." Her gaze fell. "Though I wish I could be with Isa, wherever she may go, I know I'm best suited as a nursemaid." She turned back to the clothes press, her motions sharp as she gathered several petticoats and chemises in her arms. "With no babes of my own, there's little more I could ask for."

Edward nodded shortly, briefly speculating as to whether it would be possible to provide her with an anonymous annuity, something to ensure she never wanted for anything. "I will inform Miss Swan."

Sheil nodded.

"There is a small library here, I understand."

Sheil nodded again. "This valise will be heavy enough without adding books to it, if ye don't mind me saying, Mr. Maçon." She glanced over her shoulder again, her brows low over her eyes. Her thoughts briefly touched upon the impossibility of his having passed the man she knew to be guarding the gate before the image of his refusal to take tea each time he had called at the cottage flashed through her mind. Though she had not dwelled upon it before, Sheil knew that he was somehow different—but she did not want to presume that this meant he was capable of carting a library of books across the countryside.

Edward simply smiled politely. "I completely understand."

"'Tis in the study belowstairs."

"Thank you." He left her to packing Isabella's clothes and quickly ventured belowstairs to the study at the rear of the house. He paused in the doorway, briefly absorbing the trace smell of tobacco, leather and, more faintly, the pulp and glue that made up the books lining the shelves. Though he had not brought a candle with him, he did not hesitate as he entered the room more fully, crossing to the shelves and examining the titles. On the highest shelf, several leaflets and pamphlets had been piled atop the books; these he reached for, quickly flipping through the titles before returning them to their place.

Then, turning from the room, he passed through the dark corridor and found Sheil slowly descending the stairs. "Oh," she gasped. "I didn't hear ye."

Edward bowed his head. "My apologies." He nodded towards the front sitting room. "Isabella also asked for her mother's miniature. Though I suspect the man at the gate cannot see through the curtains, it may be best if you fetch it."

"Of course," Sheil nodded. She handed him the valise before crossing the corridor to the front sitting room and slowly returning with the small miniature. Edward tucked it into the valise, safely stowed among the soft clothing bundled within.

"I have packed the remainder of her things." Sheil nodded to the valise before her gaze cast to the floor. "Ye will—ye will give her my farewells?"

"Of course," Edward immediately replied. "I am certain, like you, she wishes she could do so in person."

Sheil simply nodded and Edward sensed she was holding back tears. Though he knew it was likely small comfort, he firmly repeated the words he had told her once before. "She will be taken care of," he vowed. Even if Isabella should come to be repulsed by him, horrified by his past and refusing to be in his presence, he would ensure she wanted for nothing. "I promise."

It was fortunate Sheil could not raise her eyes from the floor, struggling to restrain her tears and refrain from showing such overt emotion. For Edward Maçon's lips had formed a wry smile as he spoke the final words and she might have come to the most unforgiving conclusion at seeing an expression that could be thought to make light of his promise. But Edward's lips did not quirk due to dishonesty; no, his wry humor was directed at himself, marveling at the fact that he sincerely believed the words he had spoken—that, despite himself, he had somehow become a man who kept his word.

The night was still black when he darted through the empty lanes of Porthleven and returned to the inn. He was unsurprised to find the windows of his rooms barely aglow with the faint light of fire, his gaze fixed on the panes as he leapt onto the roof and approached the dormer. Edward lingered outside for a moment, impervious to the cool night air, silently absorbing the scene before him.

Though the armchair was angled towards the fire, he could make out the silhouette of Isabella's head, just tilted enough to be seen beyond the high back of the chair. A tendril of chestnut hair curled from the knot loosely pinned at her crown, coiling down the white slope of her neck. Edward's gaze fell as his mind ventured unbidden to the single instance in which his lips had encountered that skin, shaking his head as he tried to dislodge the memory of her warmth, silky and impossibly soft.

Disgusted with himself, he pushed the unlatched window open and climbed through...but as he saw Isabella fail to react at his appearance, he found himself silently lowering the valise to the floor and carefully crossing the room to her side. As he listened to her steady, even breathing and the slow pace of her heart, he found he could not bring himself to disrupt her slumber, slowly sinking into the armchair opposite her own.

Edward watched her sleep for some time, surprised at how contentedly he was able to pass the time in this way, simply absorbing the pale glow of her skin, the pink hue of her lips, the occasional twitch of her small hands, and the soft rise and fall of her chest with each breath. Far too soon, the sky began to pale from black to murky gray and Edward knew he must wake her.

"Isabella."

She instantly started awake, brown eyes flaring wide, hands rising to her breast. "Edward!"

Absorbing her startled gaze and the fear in her eyes, Edward immediately decided to refrain from telling her about the three men posted on the roads and narrow tracks that led to Swan Cottage, or the superstitious symbol that had been carved into the door. Her distress was too great and he had no wish to add to it.

"Sheil included a cloak and hat in the valise she packed for you," he quietly began. "If you wish to ready yourself."

She swallowed before nodding. "Yes—yes, of course."

Though he could not know her thoughts, he could see the questions burgeoning on her lips and spoke before she could. "I will tell you all once we depart."

Isabella hesitated only a moment before rising to her feet. "As you wish."

He nodded to the valise and she quickly crossed to it, stooping to remove the cloak and bonnet packed within; it was her smallest hat with a soft crown of faded satin attached to a narrow brim of woven straw, likely the easiest to pack. When she turned back to him, her hands busily knotting the ribbons of the bonnet beneath her chin, he saw the fortitude that he had witnessed the prior night written in her countenance, her pale face resolved, brown eyes steady.

He was unsurprised when she did not balk at his next words. "This will be easier if you climb on my back." Her hesitation was so brief, only his eyes could have detected it, watching as she stepped to the walnut chair before the writing table and clambered onto the seat.

It was there, standing unsteadily upon the cane seat, that Isabella felt her first dart of anxiety. Though she had resolved to refrain from any useless hand-wringing while she awaited his return, this elevated position, so foreign and strange, demonstrated in a major and minute way how severely her life had changed. She could not recall standing upon a chair since she was a child, a forbidden activity that had always drawn Sheil's ire. Yet now, it was the best means of beginning her journey from the inn where she had hidden the past two days, forced to start her life anew.

Isabella blinked and nearly stumbled from the chair at suddenly finding Edward directly before her, a startled laugh bursting from her throat as she lifted her hands to steady herself. Edward's slow smile in response was utterly disarming, one of his gloved hands briefly lifting to her own to help her find her balance. She could not help smiling in return as she grasped his offered hand, realizing he'd demonstrated his uncanny speed deliberately, intending to startle her from her nervousness.

"You are filled with surprises," she laughed as she reluctantly released his hand.

Edward turned as he spoke, presenting her with his back, "If only you knew."

Isabella's lips parted but she did not speak—for she disagreed. She suspected there was much he had shown her that no one else knew: his speed, the strength that allowed him to leap onto rooftops and carry her for miles, and whatever strange sensibility allowed him to overlook what made her different from everyone around them. Instead of voicing this thought, she placed her hands on his shoulders, then, cheeks flushing at the intimate contact, slowly leaned against his unyielding frame.

Isabella did not realize she had stopped breathing until she heard his voice, breaking into the frozen incoherence of her thoughts. "I pray you forgive me the presumption…" A sharp exhale burst past her lips as his hands found her knees through the fabric of her cloak and skirts, cheeks flushing with impossible heat as she found herself grasping his hips with her thighs. As Edward stepped away from the chair, she gasped as she found it was necessary to wrap her arms around his neck, collapsing against him with the full force of her weight. It was an embrace more intimate than any she had ever experienced.

Isabella could barely absorb his words as he carefully climbed back through the window and into the darkness of dawn not yet fully arrived, his voice low as he explained that he had reached Swan Cottage without event and found Sheil safe inside. Instead, she was utterly distracted by the sensation of his body beneath her own, lip caught beneath her teeth as she fought to focus on what he was saying and ignore every stimulation assaulting her senses: the sweet scent of him filling her nose, the motion of his hips, the firmness of his body, the masculine feel of him.

Her distraction was such that she barely heeded when they had passed from the narrow lanes of the seaside town to the meadows and forests of the countryside. It was all a dark blur that could not begin to compete.

"She said Mrs. Berty has found a position for her as nursemaid to her grandchildren."

Isabella surfaced from her fog long enough to absorb this piece of news, her voice breathless as she briefly opened her eyes. "I wish I could leave her the cottage."

Edward's voice held no indication that he was at all weary from carrying her at an impossible pace through dewy fields, past high hedgerows, and under the low brambles of wild copses of woods. "I know she wished she was capable of coming with you."

Isabella could not help a sharp laugh, unable to contemplate the reaction Sheil would have had to the sight of her charge clutching Mr. Maçon like a wanton woman of no morals.

"We are nearly there."

Isabella simply nodded against Edward's neck, longing and dreading the moment this unsettling journey would end. She peeked through narrow eyes to see the sky had lightened; she was able to make out the sea of trees through which Edward sped, avoiding the roads as he had promised when they discussed this plan, keeping well out of sight. She did not know which would be worse: to be seen accompanying him in performing such an impossible feat, or to be seen in such an improper position, perched upon his back, arms wrapped about his neck, only the brim of her bonnet preventing her cheek from laying flush against his own.

Then, abruptly, the soothing swaying motion of Edward's body beneath her own ceased and she realized his hands were shifting from where they had grasped her knees. With a deep inhale, she loosened her arms, sliding down his back to the soft ground.

It seemed an eternity passed before Edward turned; Isabella simply stared with a dazed gaze at his back, wondering at how empty her arms now felt. When he finally faced her, his gaze did not meet her own. "The road is just beyond those elms," he began, his voice strangely rough. "The post chaise should be there no later than midday."

Isabella swallowed before nodding. "And if there is a great deal of noise, it is likely to be a coach and I should remain hidden."

Edward's gaze lifted, black eyes shining. "Precisely."

Then, before she could react, he reached for her hand and lifted her bare fingertips to meet his lips. Her breath caught in her throat and a shiver passed down her spine; she could not look away, watching with a fixed gaze as his pursed lips pressed briefly to her skin. As he lowered her hand she thought how strange it was that it should feel as if his kiss still lingered against her skin, the sensation like a sweet burn. His gaze rose to find her flushed face, his voice soft as he spoke. "It will not be long."

And then he was gone, a flit of movement her eyes could not fully detect. The only indication of his departure was the flutter of leaves—which she wasn't entirely certain she could not attribute to the breeze.

After several seconds, a shuddering breath left her lungs, her eyes sinking shut as she attempted to absorb the overwhelming sensations that had just passed. Her hands clenched and loosened, struggling to gather her thoughts and keep her wits about her. After making an effort to ensure she escaped the inn without notice, it would serve no purpose to risk discovery now.

But it was some time before she could recall anything besides the sensation of his shoulders, his hips, the feel of his hands upon her knees, the divine scent of him. It seemed hours passed before she began to recover herself…only Isabella now found her mind fixating upon the dream she'd been having when Edward's voice abruptly jerked her from her fitful slumber.

Isabella shook her head, blinking rapidly in an effort to focus upon the matter at hand. Only, the dream had been so disturbing, so unusual in its clarity and verity that she could not forget it once it had come to mind. It had not been like a dream at all, but like a memory recollected.

Yet…it could not be a memory—at least, not a memory she could have been present for. Her eyes sank shut as she ceased pushing away the images and sounds that had filled her senses before Edward's voice had so abruptly pulled her from troubled sleep.

Isabella could see it as clearly as if she'd been present: the woman was unmistakably her mother, the white lawn of her skirts swirling about her legs as she rushed around a room Isabella did not recognize. A bonnet was perched upon her hair but the ties fluttered in her wake as she passed from bookshelf to mending basket, gathering a miscellany of things in her arms. Her gaze was frantic and yet joyful, mismatched eyes bright with anticipation

A knock at the door sent Renée spinning on her heel, a brilliant smile flashing across her lips. She was so filled with excitement that she did not notice the somber woman who had appeared from the depths of the house, arms crossed over her chest, sadness written in her expression. Though she was markedly younger than the bent, elderly woman who had arrived without notice at Swan Cottage following the Penzance assembly ball, Isabella easily recognized her grandmother. Marie's gaze was resigned as she watched her daughter cross to a trunk near the door and drop the things she'd gathered inside, before turning to the door and throwing it wide.

Charles Swan stood on the threshold, a smile as brilliant as that of his new wife brightening his countenance. Without hesitation, Renée threw herself into his arms.

Isabella opened her eyes as the scene slowly faded, but she did not see the green of the forest around her, leaves dappled by sun, branches gently stirring in the breeze. Instead, her gaze was filled with a sight she knew to be imagined, brown eyes wide as she pictured Edward framed in that same doorway, his lips curved into a blinding smile, arms lifting to return her embrace.


	20. Journey

_Thanks so much to those of you recommending this story on twitter and elsewhere. & thanks for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><strong>PART TWO: A JOURNEY<strong>

_Her journey hither equally grieves and alarms me._

_Evelina, or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**twenty**

The postilion spared only a dismissive glance for Isabella when she emerged from the woods upon ascertaining the sound of passing horse hooves and carriage wheels was indeed a post-chaise. For a brief instant, she worried she had approached the wrong vehicle as it nearly passed her by. But there was a low command from within the carriage and the postilion, perched upon the rear horse, called out to the steeds as he dragged at the reins.

Though she knew it must still appear suspicious, Isabella did not hesitate in approaching the slowing carriage, watching with a steady gaze as the door swung open once the vehicle had ceased moving. Bowing her head in the hopes that the shallow brim of her bonnet would conceal her features from the postilion, she climbed inside.

Edward lounged in the farthest corner of the cab, a top hat perched upon his dark hair, his boots shining and clean with no evidence of the mud and dew he'd sped through that morning carrying her to this distant point. "You encountered no one else?" he quietly asked.

Isabella silently shook her head as she settled onto the seat opposite him. She thought she had heard the shouts and rumbles of a stage coach, likely piled with passengers and baggage, but she had not ventured far enough from the trees to ascertain if her ears had reached the correct conclusion; she was far too fearful of being seen and recognized. She'd also heard the calls and whistles of a drover, accompanied by the bleating of his herd, likely on his way to market. During the quiet stretches between, she had struggled not to drift into a doze beneath the trees, the likely result of the restless, fitful sleep she'd endured the past two nights; she had paced beneath the boughs and pinched the tender skin of her forearm to keep herself awake. In the hours that had passed, she had encountered no one and seen nothing but for the few birds that lingered overhead.

Her gaze drifted to the rear facing window, watching the road recede behind them. It was impossible to think she might never see Cornwall again. Her eyes drifted shut, thinking of the expanse of sea visible from the Coast Path, the sound of the waves pulsing against the shore, the scent of salt upon the air.

"Tell me your thoughts?"

Isabella's eyes flew open, startled from these thoughts by Edward's voice. Her lips parted, briefly distracted by the naked curiosity evident in his expression; his black eyes regarded her quizzically, his head tilted as he leaned away from the bench seat in anticipation of her response.

"Of the sea," she finally replied, her voice soft. Her gaze fell to her hands. "I do not mean to sound ungrateful—"

"You do not," he interrupted. "It is to be expected that you would feel regret at leaving your home." He shifted in his seat. "Have you never been farther than this distance?"

Isabella turned her gaze to the window set in the door. The trees had begun to thin, revealing rolling meadows speckled with goats and sheep. "No," she shook her head. "Not this far east." She paused, thinking. "Once, when my father was home on furlough, we toured north to see the church of Saint Senara." Her gaze rose. "It was during this trip that he took me to the Mên-an-Tol."

Edward's head rocked back, "Ah, I recall." He smiled. "But you saw no pixies while there."

Isabella's lips curled into a tentative smile. "No."

She briefly feared he would begin quizzing her about her abilities; for all that she'd partially confessed the truth, the knowledge of what she was had begun to feel like a black weight, ominous and burdensome. To her relief, he simply asked, "And what was the cause for journeying so far from home?"

"My mother had always wanted to see more of the country, but did not feel equal to undertaking the task alone."

Edward nodded before asking additional questions about her parents: their families, their backgrounds, their characters. She told him what she could though her memory of her father was faded and incomplete. On Renée, she was a more animated conversationalist, explaining, "She was charming, whimsical—and yet, could nurse an ill child back to health with a diligence and fortitude one might not expect from someone so light-hearted."

Isabella's gaze fell to her hands. "She loved her garden. The flowers were like her children; she lavished them with attention and affection—and they responded to her, blooming brighter and more fragrant than any of our neighbor's."

"And you have not her skill?" Edward asked.

Isabella shook her head. "Not in the least. I maintained what she began, but have not her…touch for it."

He continued to question her on topics so innocuous that she wondered if he was simply trying to distract her from the melancholy of leaving her home behind. But his curiosity remained very much in evidence, as if he'd simply been awaiting this uninterrupted, confined moment to learn everything he could think to ask of her. He paused only when they stopped to change horses, warning her in a low voice to duck her head and sit back so as to keep from being seen by the hostlers in the posting inn courtyard.

Isabella did as she was bid, going so far as to pull her cloak around her frame, concealing her dress and figure. She did not dare peer out the window, but discerned Edward's voice among the clanking of harnesses and snorting horses, as well as the postilion calling his thanks when he was presumably given a coin for his labor. Soon, Edward was climbing back into the carriage, a small package wrapped in paper in one of his gloved hands. Isabella had not even realized she was hungry.

As she took the bundle and eagerly tugged at the string keeping its contents secure, she glanced up, "You are not famished?" She could not recall when she had seen him eat.

As the paper fell aside to reveal a trio of apricots and a pasty oozing butter, she did not see him shake his head. She glanced up when he lightly replied, "Perhaps I will eat when we arrive at our destination."

Isabella simply nodded before biting into the delicious pasty, closing her eyes as the butter and vegetables melted in her mouth. When she finished chewing and swallowing and opened her eyes, she was surprised to find Edward's gaze fixed on her face, black eyes unwavering. Though she could not say why, a flush slowly stole across her cheeks.

"I did not realize how much time has passed since I properly ate," she quietly offered, hoping to break the awkward silence.

Edward's gaze fell to his gloved hands. "I will have to ensure that doesn't happen again," he replied.

Isabella could not help wondering how long he would burden himself with assisting her; having aided her in fleeing the seaside without detection, when would he determine that they had traveled a safe distance? What would she do once that decision had been made? She pondered the options that had seemed far-fetched in the wake of Mr. Eldritch's death: forging letters of reference in order to find a position as a governess or milliner, using a false name, ever ready to flee should she suspect her past might come to light.

"We'll go as far as St. Austell tonight, the weather permitting." Edward's voice interrupted these anxious thoughts. Her gaze flew to the carriage window, watching as they creaked beyond the posting inn courtyard and back to the road.

The sky had grown dark and speckled with stars when the carriage rumbled through the cobblestoned streets of St. Austell; it was late enough that lanterns had been lit, swinging above the doors of public houses and those residences where the master was still expected, briefly brightening the swaying carriage as they passed by.

Isabella could not help feeling grateful for their impending arrival, her body aching with the hours she'd spent on the hard bench seat, rocking and bouncing over rutted roads. As the light of a passing lantern briefly filled the cab with warm yellow light, she was somehow unsurprised to see Edward's pale face unaffected by the journey, his brow and eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat, gloved hands neatly folded in his lap.

She was soon distracted from this envious thought by seeing the lights of the town begin to recede behind them. Her gaze flew from window to window, wondering if the driver was mistakenly continuing their journey…though she could not have imagined Edward allowing for such an error. Just as she was ready to voice her anxieties, the carriage began to slow before a small posting inn on the outskirts of town, the curtained windows glowing with candle light.

"I thought it best that our lodgings be unassuming."

"Of-of course," Isabella stuttered. It was stupid of her to have thought otherwise; of course they would reside in a small inn far from the center of town, less likely to attract notice, and encountering fewer people.

"Come." The carriage had drawn to a halt before the door and she could hear the rough greetings of hostlers approaching the cab. Edward opened the carriage door before the hostlers reached them, stepping down to the cobblestones and reaching back for her hand.

Isabella took it without hesitation, her gaze trained on her feet, endeavoring to hide her features from the postilion dismounting from the rear horse, from the hostlers who were unloading their luggage, and from the innkeeper who was soon bustling towards them, a hearty greeting on his lips.

"We are only now settling down to supper in the common room—"

"My sister is quite weary," Edward smoothly interrupted as he deftly placed Isabella's hand on his forearm. "Would it be at all possible to take supper in our rooms?"

The innkeeper was all deference as he registered Edward's fine garb and mannered accent, nearly bowing at the waist as he nodded in agreement, hands clasped before his belly. "But of course, m'lord," he replied. "Just as you wish. You shall have our finest rooms, of course!"

He led the way through a common room that burbled with conversation, the smell of cooked meat and onions heavy upon the air; Isabella kept her gaze carefully averted from the people gathered there, docilely following as the innkeeper swept a chamberstick from a nearby table before turning to a narrow staircase unlit by sconces. She was forced to remove her hand from Edward's forearm as he followed her up the steps.

"I'll see your trunks delivered directly," the innkeeper called over his shoulder as they reached a low door that led into a suite of rooms. As the posting inn was modest, the rooms reflected the same modest proportions: the wide wood floorboards were worn but clean, the two chairs before the fireplace simple and without upholstery, though embroidered pillows protected their hard backs. A table covered with a faded lace cloth sat between the chairs, a snub of candle lodged in the chamberstick upon its surface.

The innkeeper hurried over to light the candle, turning back to Edward and Isabella with a proud gaze. "The bedchambers are through there," he nodded towards the two doors on opposite walls of the sitting room. "I hope you will find everything to your liking."

"I'm certain we shall," Edward replied with a respectful bow of his head. Then, turning to Isabella, he spoke in even more solicitous tones. "Please make yourself comfortable. I shall return when I have finished paying the hostlers."

"And perhaps you'd like to select the cut of meat to be sent up for your supper?" the innkeeper helpfully offered as he bustled back towards the door.

"Certainly," Edward nodded politely again, his gaze briefly returning to Isabella. She could see the concern in his countenance and she realized he was anxious to leave her alone. She surreptitiously nodded her head, silently seeking to assure him that she was perfectly well. After a moment's pause, he followed the innkeeper from the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

Isabella tugged her bonnet from her head with a weary sigh. Crossing to the chair before the empty grate of the fire, she settled gratefully onto its hard seat; despite the lack of cushioning, it was a relief to be seated upon a surface that did not bounce and jostle her with every movement.

It seemed as though only a moment had passed before a knock sounded upon the door; she turned in the chair in time to see Edward re-appear, a manservant loaded down with baggage on his heels. They exchanged a few words, seeing that Isabella's valises were placed in one room while Edward's trunk was lugged into the other before the servant bowed his way out.

"You needn't have hurried," she cajoled him, a slight smile tilting her lips.

Edward simply smiled in return as he pulled his hat from his head and removed his gloves. "Perhaps I have become accustomed to gazing upon your face after a day of travel."

If he intended to fluster her, he had succeeded; her cheeks filled with heat, her gaze instantly falling to her lap. She thought back to the worries and fears he had distracted her from earlier that day with his constant questions, completely uncertain as to her future. She could not possibly expect him to act upon his fascination now, not with her reputation in ruin, her life at risk should she confess her true identity to anyone in the rooms belowstairs.

Before he could fluster her further, there was another knock at the door, a plump maid soon nudging the door open with the help of an ample hip, her hands preoccupied with a heavy tray. Her smile was bright and wide despite the canine she was missing, calling out a greeting as she set the tray upon the table. Edward easily returned her pleasantries before confirming they needed nothing further. Isabella did not raise her gaze from her lap for the entirety of the exchange.

"Are you not hungry?"

"I—yes," she replied, frowning as she raised her eyes; his expression was pleasantly benign, a hint of a smile upon his lips, black eyes glancing to the plate of food before her. She longed to ask him as to his intentions now that so much had changed, but she had no idea how to form the words…and she was hungry. The mutton before her smelled of herbs and garlic, the roasted vegetables slick with butter, tankards of ale frothy to the brim.

"I thought you meant to eat once we arrived?" Isabella asked after taking several bites and noticing that Edward had not touched his plate.

Edward shrugged, the motion dismissive. "I find I have no appetite."

She wondered if the fare was too modest for him and not to his taste, frowning down at her plate in consternation. She had always known his manners to be fine, his background cultured; she wondered if he resented the need to travel so covertly in such modest circumstances. Before she could offer an apology, certain these were words she could bring herself to speak, she heard his voice asking yet another question…though this time the subject was far from innocuous.

"I am curious—" he began, "besides the affinity animals seem to have for you…and you're ability to call for help, what else are you capable of?"

Isabella's fork clattered to her plate, her gaze shooting from her food to his impassive countenance, her eyes wide with alarm. Though she had felt compelled to confess her fear of the powers she suspected she possessed, it still felt impossible to speak of these things so openly. After a lifetime of assuming that what set her apart from her peers was her foreign mother, and the impoverishment of her circumstances after her father's death, it was difficult to own the true reason she sat across the table from him now.

"I don't know what you—" she began to protest, but the denial died on her lips as his features immediately twisted into a wry grimace.

"Come," he bade. "Why feign such ignorance?"

Isabella realized her hands were shaking and curled them into fists in her lap. Her mouth was dry, her gaze darting around the room with increasing desperation. "B-because," she stuttered, struggling to voice the reason she could barely articulate to herself. "It still seems such a—such a fantasy," she exclaimed, brown eyes pleading as she met his gaze.

But Edward's dark eyes were unrelenting, his expression impatient as he regarded her over his untouched plate of food.

"I am certain it was not God who called my name while you nearly drowned," he drily replied, his gaze hard. "It was you."

Isabella's gaze fell, and before she knew her intentions, she had scrambled to her feet, her supper forgotten as she crossed to the far door—but he was before her in one silent unseen movement, black eyes questioning as he blocked her way into the private bedchamber. "Why should this be so difficult?" The question was gentle, the impatience of a moment before entirely gone.

She was shocked to hear the tears in her voice, the words nearly a wail as she cried, "Because I do not wish to be different!" She spun away, embarrassed by such an emotional display, lifting a hand to dash away the silly tears. "What has it gained me?"

She paced back to the table with short, angry steps, breathing heavily with the force of her frustration and sorrow. "I do not want my grandmother to be right. I want to be who I was before—"

"But this _is_ what you were before," Edward's voice was gentle but insistent, and she felt the weight of his hands on her shoulders. She could not raise her gaze as he turned her around to face him. "And admitting what you are does not give legitimacy to the beliefs of the animals who tried to take your life."

Isabella shook her head, unresisting as he pulled her into his arms. She could not bring herself to voice the thought she had shied away from thinking much less voicing these past two days. For what if she was to blame for that storm? What if, through powers she did not understand, her outrage at James Eldritch Junior's behavior had led to the storm that took the lives of two men?

But she could not speak the words and found herself yielding against Edward's chest. She was surprised to find her cheeks did not grow warm with mortification as she nestled in the shelter of his arms. She simply felt safe in his embrace, all of the turmoil and fear of the past few days melting away. The very scent of him was soothing, the wool of his jacket soft against her cheek, his breath cool against her hair. "I know what they did was not right," she finally whispered. Isabella knew that much to be true. "But I still do not wish to be different." For how could she live with the guilt if she was inadvertently responsible for their deaths?

She felt the touch of his fingers against her hair, his voice weary when he replied, "You can't know how well I understand the sentiment."

Isabella thought she might have lingered in his arms for an eternity, but he was the first to draw away, stepping back before lifting a bare finger to her chin. She inhaled at the sensation of his cool skin against her own, but raised her gaze to his as she knew he wished. There was a question in his eyes, concern written in his features. She nodded silently, wordlessly assuring him she had recovered herself. A brief frown crossed his brow before his hand fell away and he reluctantly returned to his seat. She soon followed, disappointed to see her mutton had settled into a congealing pool of oil.

Several minutes passed in silence as Isabella thought of various ways to begin. "My grandmother came," she shook her head, realizing this was starting the story from the middle. But she went on. "She arrived at the cottage the night of the assembly ball." She shook her head again, this time at her grandmother's inexplicable behavior. "Her visit was so brief—I might have thought it a dream but for the letter she unearthed in my bedchamber." Isabella's gaze fell, unable to meet his steady stare while relating such wild occurrences. "She told me much of what I'd already suspected."

"The summoning," Edward stated.

But Isabella shook her head. "It had only occurred once before. There are other…things." She inhaled, forcing her gaze to return to his. She did not know whether to be relieved at finding only mild curiosity in his countenance. "Premonitions—visitors, the weather, nothing momentous." She shook her head, trying to downplay the power of the ability.

"The adoration of animals," Edward added.

Isabella nodded in agreement. "My mother was a healer but I have none of her skill." Sheil had learned a handful of simple poultices and tinctures though she claimed many were too complicated to remember—and because the former nursemaid could not read, Renée had never bothered to write down any of the remedies. "I told you of her ability in the garden. I swear," Isabella shook her head, knowing the claim would sound fantastic, "the flowers bloomed overnight for her."

"I have heard and seen wilder things," Edward quietly replied.

Isabella's gaze flew to his own, reassured by his lack of doubt. "I have also wondered if she could…" Isabella's cheek's flushed involuntarily, brown eyes falling to her lap. It felt so ludicrous to speak the words aloud, even now. "I wondered if she could…influence the weather."

"And that is what the fishermen suspected of you." Edward's reply was somber.

Isabella silently nodded but quickly changed the subject. "She was also able to find anything that was lost," Isabella shook her head. "Though I know not how."

But Edward was leaning forward as though he had not heard this final statement, his dark eyes narrowing as he spoke. "Do you have this skill?"

Isabella could not help the frown that furrowed her forehead, her brows low over her eyes, wondering at his sudden intensified curiosity. She shook her head. "Sheil, Mrs. Hammet—they always came to my mother when they had misplaced something." It was one of the skills Renée was reluctant to demonstrate beyond their small circle of family and servants.

"Is it possible that you have simply never tested this skill?' Edward asked, his curiosity unabated.

Isabella regarded him uncertainly. He was all eagerness, leaning over the table, a restless hand fidgeting next to his plate. "I suppose it is possible." She knew that he had ostensibly been traveling in Cornwall due to a lost possession—but she had never fully believed his claim regarding his bolted horse. "You would like me to try to find something you've lost?" she asked, unable to restrain the dubiousness in her voice. She did not think it possible that her initial suspicion was wrong, but she could not think what else he wished for her to attempt to find.

Edward nodded, his lips parting to speak before she could ask another question. "But I've not lost an object." He hesitated. "I've lost a person—a young lady."

Isabella abruptly froze, the blood slowly draining from her face, her eyes wide and stunned. After several moments of silence, she finally found the words to whisper, "A young lady?"

Edward did not appear to sense her distress, rising abruptly from his seat and darting to his bedchamber, his voice a murmur drifting in his wake. "I will show you…"

He returned almost immediately, his hand open before him. In his palm, she saw the dully glinting gold of a locket resting upon the pooled links of a delicate chain.

"She was...in my care," he explained. Her startled gaze darted to his face as his words faltered for she had almost never seen him at a loss; his countenance matched his diction, his expression troubled, his gaze distant. "She was very...ill."

Isabella tried to swallow the worry and fear welling in her throat, certain for a brief instant that she would be sick if she could not. She found it impossible to pull her gaze from his face though she longed to look away from the worry and concern she saw evident there. What did this mean? What more was he hiding? She recalled the day he had fled her presence, and how clear it had become when he returned that evening to apologize upon her doorstep that he was concealing something much greater than she could imagine.

"I was bringing her with me." Isabella's frown deepened at his unusual phrasing, that he was not claiming that they were traveling together. "From France, from Calais," he added before shaking his head. His eyes regained focus, rising from the locket to meet her gaze. Isabella struggled to calm her features but knew it was no use, watching as he seemed to hesitate, as if determining whether he should tell her any more. Then, as if realizing he had already confessed so much, Edward continued, "Midway through the voyage, she disappeared."

Isabella's eyes flared wide, her hands rising to her throat. "She—she drowned?"

Lines form around Edward's mouth as his lips thinned in a grimace. "She was not aboard the ship. But I'm certain she did not drown."

Isabella's lips moved but no sound passed from her throat, unable to make sense of such a claim. Then, a thought occurred to her, her eyes growing wide with the realization. He was so strong, so fast, his words coming easy despite carrying her across miles of countryside—as if he didn't require the air to breathe. She asked the question before she could doubt her reasoning. "Is she like you?" The words were a rough whisper but his gaze flew to her own, surprise evident in his countenance.

His answer was abrupt without offering further explanation. "Yes."

Isabella's gaze fell, her lips trembling. Her hands tightened into clenched fists in her lap, her belly tight with curdling fear. She fought the urge but the words escaped her lips before she could control herself.

"Is she your betrothed?"

Edward's sudden, loud laugh startled her from her distress, her eyes flying wide as she watched him nearly bend double in his amusement. But his reaction was no reassurance, and anger flared in her chest as his laughter subsided into a sly grin. "Is that jealousy I detect?" he asked.

Isabella could barely speak, her throat tight with frustration and fear. The food she had just eaten felt like lead in her stomach, her palms slick with nervous sweat.

"I know nothing of you," she tightly replied, struggling to control her temper, brown eyes steady as she met his amused stare. "I know nothing of what you intend." She shook her head, fighting to swallow the lump in her throat, her gaze falling to the worn floorboards. "I know only what I can see—and sometimes know not whether what I see is real."

She shook her head again, her gaze pleading when it rose to meet his own. "How can I presume to know anything of this story when what I know of you is next to nothing?"


	21. Vexation

_A short one to follow on this week's earlier update. Next chapter to be posted this coming weekend. Thanks so much for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>This discovery, notwithstanding it relieved her from all suspense of his meaning, gave her much vexation…<em>

_Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**twenty-one**

In that manner to which she suspected she would never become accustomed, Isabella started to find Edward immediately before her. But it was not only the impossible speed with which he reached her side, it was also the shocking posture he assumed, on his knees before her, his ungloved hands covering her own. His touch was cool and undeniably intimate, but she could not have imagined pulling away.

"Isabella," he spoke her name softly, his voice so tender that she felt her hands tremble beneath his touch. She longed for her anxiety and fear to melt away, but even this gesture could not entirely sooth her; she simply listened as he spoke in a low voice. "I am Edward Maçon, as you know." He paused. "I have gone by other names at times, but you have always known the name with which I was christened." She heard the smile on his lips rather than saw it, for she could not drag her gaze from the pale hands covering her own. "My mother would have called me Édouard, but I consider that a matter of pronunciation rather than accuracy."

His fingers shifted, gently caressing her own. She focused on the contrary coolness and warmth of his touch, unaware that her breathing had grown shallow as he continued. "I was born in Châteauroux, as you know. My father was a master mason, as was his father before him."

It was at this that her gaze finally rose, surprised to hear that his background was in trade. His smile was wry as he met her startled stare. "I always imagined I would do the same." He paused, his gaze falling to where his index finger drew gentle circles on the back of her hand. "When I was still young, only an apprentice, they died from an illness that I somehow survived. I traveled to Paris, where I knew my father had a brother. I was seventeen—too young to remain on my own in Châteauroux—and I was certain I could continue my apprenticeship with him." He inhaled. "But the illness that had taken my parents was present in Paris and the city—" His voice faltered. "The city was in chaos."

Isabella was not conscious of the fact that she had shifted her hands to hold his own until she felt their fingers intertwine. She glanced down, a faint flush stealing up her cheeks.

"It was many years before normalcy returned." Edward's voice had grown brisk. "But by then, I was changed—into what I am now." Though she knew there was much he was omitting, she was too grateful for what he'd shared so far to question him. "There were opportunities available to me that had never been possible before, and I took advantage of them." His eyes rose to meet her own, his gaze frank. "You have skills and abilities...as do I. These worked to my advantage in many ways that allowed me to move in circles I would otherwise have had no access to. And then...the revolution came."

Isabella could not help her frown at this juncture, her confusion immediately evident. For she had been an infant when the French king and queen were guillotined. It had never occurred to her that Edward could be much older than her twenty years. Though she loathed to interrupt him, she could not refrain from asking, "But how old are you?"

The room was silent for several seconds and she watched Edward's expression grow surprisingly sad as he met her curious stare, his hands loosening their grasp. "Six and twenty years."

Isabella's lips parted, uncertain of how this could be. How could he speak of his parents' deaths and his move to Paris as a youth of seventeen—if the revolution must have occurred before those events rather than after? But Edward did not speak to clarify, the sadness in his features deepening. Isabella sensed there was a key to the mystery of him in this fact, but her lips pressed into a thin line as she felt his hands drawing away from her own.

She instinctively tighted her grip, refusing to let him go. Though she knew there was much of which she was still ignorant, could she not repress her curiosity to spare him the pain it so obviously gave him to share these details? He was an orphan, like her, with experiences likely colored by trials and travails. What did it cost her to spare him the questions that burgeoned on her lips when he had already done so much for her?

When she failed to speak, her expression emptying of all confusion and curiosity, he finally continued, his voice hesitant. "I had traveled a great deal and took refuge in England for a time…but when it appeared things had settled to some extent in France, I decided to return." He shook his head, his voice filled with regret. "It was a mistake."

The room fell silent, the only sound their steady breathing and the faint clatter of silverware belowstairs.

When Edward went on, the regret was still evident in his voice. "I did not know her." He shook his head. "We had the briefest of conversations in a public market." For the first time, she heard anger tint his words, his voice bitter. "But that was enough to incite the interest of someone I once knew—someone who noticed my return and had been tracking me without my knowledge." His lips tightened. "This girl—she is suffering the consequences of something she has nothing to do with."

Edward's voice grew resolved as he went on. "She is an innocent in all of this and I feel responsible for her...and for whatever may have become of her."

Isabella did not hesitate, her voice firm. "May I see the locket?"

Edward retreated to his seat while Isabella examined the necklace, turning the oval locket over in her hands, head bent as she examined its plain surface. There was no scrollwork or other decorative element marking the metal. The delicate links of the chain danced over her fingers, shining in the soft light of the candle on the table between them.

The locket opened with the faintest click and he watched as she examined the two miniatures inside. "I believe she was…is the elder." The portraits were simple, the pale faces of two girls staring from the pendant; they both boasted black hair and blue eyes, their white gowns unadorned.

"What is her name?" Isabella asked without lifting her gaze from the locket.

"Alice," he answered quietly. "That is as much as I know." He had fled so quickly that there had been no time to learn more.

"Alice…" Isabella softly repeated him and Edward could not deny the jarring sensation of hearing her murmur the name he'd thought so frequently to himself.

"_Bon jour à nouveau!"_

The young voice had been so brightly pleasant that it had taken Edward the span of a heartbeat to register the meaning of her words. His startled gaze must have indicated to the young girl that her greeting had disarmed him, her smile abruptly fading as her gaze dropped to the flowers spread before her.

"Have we met?" Edward's voice had been polite, successfully striving to keep the edge from his tone. He knew his memory to be perfect, every moment since his change indelibly written in his mind—there was no chance he had forgotten meeting the dark haired girl. He knew without a doubt he'd never seen her before.

Her bright blue eyes darted to his face before falling again to the array of flowers bundled on the table before her, her faltering expression revealing she had sensed his discomfiture despite his best efforts to conceal the reaction. "I apologize, Monsieur, I m-must have mistaken you for someone else."

But he could see it was a lie, for her hands nervously busied themselves with tightening the twine of the nearest bouquet at hand, her gaze averted, her cheeks brightening with the pink of blood. Her thoughts were too flustered to make sense of, a jumble of frantic words and images, including his own as he stood before her in the Montcarvel market—but one thought overrode all the others: _Maman will be so angry if she learns I slipped again._

Edward forced his features to ease into a charming smile, gesturing to the flowers he'd been only cursorily examining when she had interrupted his thoughts with her unexpected greeting. "Are these from your family's farm?"

The girl had nodded, her gaze fearful as it darted to his own and then away. A flash of a man he suspected to be her father passed through her mind, bending down to ruffle her hair, blue eyes bright but sad before he turned away. The man marched steadily down the lane, a musket slung under his arm; though the young girl had watched him until he disappeared over the rise, he had never turned to look back. Edward pretended great interest in the flowers, but his mind was occupied with making rapid deductions: it was clear the man had joined the army, perhaps in response to the _levée en masse_ though it may have been later—for even after the treaties were signed Bonaparte had not ceased growing his forces.

Glancing up, he examined the girl's pale face through his lashes; she had not the tanned features of a farm girl accustomed to the fields, her frame small, her dark hair caught beneath a cap with a trim of fine, if worn, lace. Her father had likely died, as had so many others, leaving the family to these reduced circumstances, selling what they could in the Montcavrel market.

"Who is it that I resemble?" Edward lightly asked. He was certain the question would only further fluster the girl but could think of no other excuse for lingering in her stall.

"Ah," she choked out a laugh, blue eyes increasingly frantic, "only someone I glimpsed once, Monsieur!"

But the only image in her thoughts was his own.

"I thought, mayhap, when I touched the locket…" Isabella's soft voice brought him back to the present, her brow furrowed with faint frustration as she continued turning the locket over in her hands.

"How was your mother able to detect…?" Edward began, but she was already shaking her head, raising her gaze to wryly respond.

"I haven't any idea." She inhaled. "My grandmother was quite indignant that she had not taught me…"

"She was trying to protect you," Edward quietly replied.

Isabella's lips quirked. "Which did not end as she intended." Her gaze returned to the locket, a sigh blowing past her lips. "I wish I could help you."

But Edward shook his head, reaching across the table to slowly slip the necklace from her unresisting fingers. "Do not concern yourself. I am in no worse a position than before."

"And that is what you have been endeavoring to do," Isabella softly stated. "To find Alice."

Edward nodded, his gaze falling to the locket. "I began in Dover. I assumed she'd make her way to land for we were within sight of the shore. I've been making my way east—"

"Along the coast," Isabella quietly replied.

Edward nodded again before tightening his hand over the locket, blocking it from his sight. He dared not ponder the prospect of Alice having traversed further inland, disoriented and dangerous.

"I find I have other priorities now," he began, his gaze rising to find Isabella's pale countenance. The distress and fear that had been evident in her gaze had faded, replaced by understanding—but confusion bloomed anew at his words. "I must ensure your safety," he explained. But he knew he desired to do much more than protect her, as wrong as he knew it to be when she remained ignorant still of his true nature.

"You have already done so much," Isabella replied, the words a near whisper.

"I will not feel confident of your safety until we are far from Cornwall," he insisted. "A town of some size will suit, where we can live quietly and without notice."

Her eyes had grown wide as he spoke, a slow flush creeping up her throat, but she did not speak to protest.

"I have an acquaintance who I trust. His presence would help to settle my mind as far as your safety should I wish to begin searching for Alice again." Isabella remained silent and Edward went on, the words almost hurried. "Where he lives is a large enough town, with a transient populace, that our arrival—or departure—will attract little notice."

He lifted his chin, pretending a confidence he did not feel. But her spike of jealousy must be confirmation that her feelings were unchanged despite the repeated demonstration of his inhuman qualities, so surprising that he had reacted with a laugh of disbelief before realizing how troubled she was by her ignorance.

Edward continued when Isabella did not balk. "Before we journey there, however, we shall pause in London. If by chance Captain Hale or Lawrence Eldritch should have managed to track us, we will easily lose them in a city of that size."

Isabella finally spoke, her tone indicating her intimidation at the thought. "I've never been."

Edward's smile was brilliant. "Then I shall show you."

Isabella was silent for some time and he had never longed so much as he did in that moment to sense her thoughts. When she finally spoke, he nearly exhaled with relief that her words indicated her lingering uncertainty as to his intentions rather than reluctance to be in his presence. "You mean to travel with me beyond London, and find lodging for me with someone you trust…"

The words burst past his lips, impulsive, wild, and bold. "I mean to marry you, Isabella."

Her shock could not have been greater. Her cheeks grew so pale he briefly worried she might faint, her eyes wide with stunned wonder; he could discern the pounding of her heart beneath her breast, and her breath was soon panting past parted lips. Edward's gaze fell to his closed fist, speaking quickly in the hope that his words would put off her rejection. "In London, we are more likely to find a vicar I can bribe to perform the service without the need for published banns." He forced a nervous smile as he met her gaze. "Given the risk such a publication would mean."

To his relief, she simply swallowed visibly before slowly nodding. Edward could not help the widening of his smile when he saw she did not mean to protest, his free hand reaching across the table, a supplicating gesture. He could have set the world ablaze with the fire of his joy when she lifted her hand from her lap and tentatively met his own.

But her next words sent a surprised laugh from his lips. "Your father was a mason?"

Edward's amusement was genuine, a mix of delight that however frustrating he often found her mind's silence, it was so refreshing to have no concept of what she might next say—and disbelief that of all the things that might cause her to balk, it was his background in trade that she now questioned.

"My father was not a gentleman, no." He tilted his head, regarding her with an amused gaze. "Do you object?"

"Oh, no!" Isabella exclaimed, realizing her gaffe. "I am no snob, Edward, I promise you." She gestured to his fine clothing with her free hand. "But it was no mistake the innkeeper thought you nobility. Whatever your background, you have clearly risen beyond it." Her gaze dropped to her lap, suddenly filled with shyness. "Can I not be a little relieved that there is something of your history that makes us a bit more equal?"

All amusement faded from Edward's gaze and his hand instinctively tightened over her own. Distantly, he marveled that she did not flinch or shiver from his cold touch, ever unafraid. A dozen responses flickered through his mind—but there was much of him that was still selfish and reckless and he could not bring himself to diminish his chances by admitting how little he deserved her. Instead, he finally allowed in a quiet voice, "As you please."


	22. Danger

_Thank you so much to Cullenboyz for recommending this story over on Bookish Temptations, and to anyone else who may have recommended Isabella elsewhere. Thank you so much for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>Indeed I fear I was in greater danger than I apprehended, or can now think of without trembling…<em>

_Evelina: Or the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**twenty two**

The counterpane felt too weighted, the sheets clinging uncomfortably to her limbs. Isabella twisted and shifted, her muscles sensitive to every bump and ripple beneath the ticking. Groaning, she pushed away from the mattress and thumped her pillow with a frustrated fist. But it was no use. She could not grow restful, all of her senses wretched and flustered.

She could scarcely believe the practical manner with which Edward Maçon had determined the coming days and weeks, including their eventual marriage. He appeared to assume it was a foregone conclusion and it had not occurred to her to refuse him. Yet there was still so much she knew herself to be ignorant of, however much he had confessed over the past few hours.

Only, as the questions that still lingered came to mind, Isabella would find herself distracted by the memory of his firm body beneath her own, her arms wrapped around his neck…and the unforgettable sensation of his hips as he sped across a blur of dark countryside…

Isabella groaned again as she rolled over, uncaring of the sheets tangling around her legs. She squeezed her eyes shut, begging for sleep to come. Only the incessant questions that had arisen from the moment she'd retreated to her bedchamber would not cease echoing through her head. For how could she think to question his offer? Had she not longed from the moment she met him to indulge in visions of a future she had never thought would come to pass? She had thought it to be a fancy, a childish dream that held no basis in reality.

But hadn't he disproved her skepticism again and again, calling repeatedly at Swan Cottage, seeking her out at the Penzance assembly ball, and demonstrating through action and words his interest in her? He had always been single-minded, even if she was full of doubt. Her lips thinned as she tried to comprehend his reasoning, or lack thereof, in making such an offer. Was his fortune so thoroughly secured that he truly had no concern for the judgment and censure he might suffer by entering into such a match? He had mentioned going by other names—did that play into his disregard for what society might think? Was his own reputation already so thoroughly tarnished that it mattered not who he took to be his wife? And if his reputation was so tarnished, did that alter her opinion of him?

"No, no," Isabella shook her head against the pillows, uncaring of the snarl that would become of her hair. For she was tormented by the answer to this question. She was certain she did not care. If he was a social pariah for dueling, or gambling, or some other misadventure she could not imagine, it held no concern for her. For he had never behaved dishonorably towards her, whatever his past, whatever his parentage.

Her hand slung around to her upper arm, stroking where James Eldritch Junior had once restrained her. For all of his manners and pretensions, Mr. James had been no gentleman. While she suspected there was something of Edward's past that might be questionable, she had no doubt about who he was now. And she could not discount his strange, impossible abilities—abilities that could have contributed to whatever potential alienation led him to have such little regard for society's opinion of his wife.

But it was all conjecture. She was certain of nothing...but for Edward's unwavering desire to have her at his side.

It was with this astonishing thought that she finally drifted into a light sleep, skimming just below the surface of consciousness. When she woke, she was certain it was due to some interruption—a knock at the door, her name upon someone's lips. But as she pushed away from the mattress into a seated position, she realized the room was empty and dark, the faintest light coming through the voile curtains to illuminate the simple furnishings. The light was so faint she was not certain whether it was due to the moon or the coming dawn.

Just as she began to exhale with relief, a light rap at the door drew her startled gaze. "Y-yes?" she called, fearing for a moment that it might be someone other than Edward.

But his voice called back, low and pressing. "May I come in?"

"I—" Isabella hesitated only a moment—but he had already seen her garbed in far less than her voluminous nightdress. Pulling the sheets to her chin, she softly called, "Of course."

The door cracked open and Edward slipped through; even in the dim light, she could see he was garbed in the breeches and jacket he'd worn earlier that day, his head bare. "You bear dire news, I fear," she sighed. She wondered if she would become accustomed to these pre-dawn interruptions to her sleep, ever ready for the arrival of some malevolent force intending her harm.

Edward gave a single nod before speaking, "I traced our steps to ensure we weren't followed."

"But we were," Isabella softly replied, fear causing the hair at her nape to prickle and stand on end.

"Only Captain Hale and Lawrence Eldritch have the means to travel as far as this—and they, and their horses, are exhausted."

"You mean we shouldn't attempt to evade them?" Isabella couldn't conceal her surprise. Given his speed, she had assumed this was their primary recourse should they be followed.

"It will only serve to confirm their suspicions that we are together, and that they are on the correct path." His gaze rose, his expression filled with a singular intensity as he met her gaze and stepped further into the room. "I suspect we can deceive them into believing that, while they have found me, I have no idea as to your whereabouts."

"But the innkeeper—the servants…" She had been seen by so many people.

"Your hair was covered and your face was hidden to the people belowstairs as well as the innkeeper. And the two servants who waited at table last night—they saw you for an instant lit by a single candle. They cannot avow to you being anyone other than my traveling companion."

Isabella chewed her lip anxiously, unable to argue with his reasoning.

"More importantly," Edward continued, "once Captain Hale and Mr. Eldritch confirm for themselves that I have no connection with you, we will no longer need to be concerned with their potential pursuit."

She knew he was right but couldn't understand how he meant to execute the deception. "But how…"

"They should be here no later than half nine. You will have every reason to still be abed, especially if they are to presume you are not who they suspect."

Isabella began to see his meaning. "If I unplait my hair…" she reached up as she spoke and saw Edward nod.

"I have carmine, among other things, in my trunk…" He glanced around the room, failing to note how Isabella paused, a frown briefly passing over her brow.

"Carmine?"

"I never know when it will prove useful." He waved a hand dismissively, though Isabella could not turn her thoughts from the conjured image of his pale face marked with paint. She understood it had fallen out of fashion in France with the onset of the revolution, along with the use of excessive powder. In quiet Mousehole, powder was only used by those who could afford the expense after a tax had been implemented when she was still quite young. And painting was something only aged aristocrats and women of dubious reputation practiced.

Edward had darted from the room on silent feet and now re-appeared, an oblong box in his hands; even in the dim half-light of dawn, Isabella could discern the gleam of silver. As Edward drew closer, she could make out the twirling scrollwork that decorated the metal, delicate and ornate.

"Come." Her eyes jerked from the box to his hand, which was stretched in her direction.

Realizing there was likely not a good deal of time and her dawdling would only jeopardize their efforts, she scrambled from beneath the covers and took his hand. Silently, she followed as he led her to the simple dressing table, watching with wide eyes as he unlatched the box and began drawing an array of items from within its velvet-lined confines.

Later, when fright sent her heart pounding in her chest and blood rushing through her ears, she would wonder that it had taken such a time for fear to set in. But perhaps it was unsurprising that she should be distracted by the novel experience of being assisted at her toilette by Edward Maçon, watching in the reflection of the warped glass as he tapped powder from a thin vial into the palm of his hands, then carefully dusted her hair.

"At the very least, your hair won't appear as dark," a frown crossed his brow, "though it also doesn't resemble any color that occurs in nature."

Isabella could not help a brief smile, watching with fascination as he ran his hands through her hair, blending the powder into her chestnut tresses. She had never been waited upon by anyone besides Sheil, and the foreign sight of his figure behind her, carefully tousling her hair, was difficult to absorb. She remained silent and quietly fascinated as he took a brass disc from the toilette box, then pried it apart to reveal the deep red carmine inside. Carefully dabbing the tip of his finger in the waxy substance, he then lifted his gaze and with rapt concentration, gently dashed the soft skin of her cheek in repeated brushing motions.

It was some time before he was satisfied with his efforts, murmuring for her benefit, "It will not do to appear too natural…" Isabella was mesmerized by the effect; though she had glimpsed herself when flushed with nervousness or confusion, this uniform coral hue across her cheeks was unmistakably artificial. "If you'll turn…" Edward bid.

Isabella struggled to tear her eyes from the foreign figure in the glass, meeting his gaze as she turned her head. He hesitated only a moment before lowering his bare finger to her lips, gently caressing the sensitive flesh. She instinctively pursed her lips, then found her gaze falling as she realized the motion mimicked that of a kiss, a natural blush joining the false one painted across her cheeks.

Edward appeared to hesitate as he withdrew his finger but she could not bring herself to lift her gaze, too mortified by her reaction to his nearness, to the intimacy between them. But if he truly meant the words of his proposal, should she have any reason for mortification? Isabella was awash with confusion, barely attending his words as he murmured, "I have a bit of kohl here, as well…"

The soft stub of a dull pencil pressed against the skin above her eyes, darkening her brows. "And if you'll look up…" She struggled not to blink as he passed the pencil beneath her eyes, swallowing as she felt his cool breath upon her brow as he concentrated upon his work. Only when he'd drawn away and her gaze fell to the image in the looking glass did she blink again, struggling to recognize the person reflected there.

"Oh my."

The painted woman staring back bore only a passing resemblance to the pale, dark-haired young woman she was accustomed to seeing. A cloud of dusky hair framed her oval face, the color dulled though not quite grayed as she had sometimes seen in portraits. Black brows arched above wide, surprised eyes that appeared foreign and strange when lined with dark kohl, the whites brighter, the brown of her eyes richer even in the half light of dawn. And the rouge that stained her cheeks and lips gave her an appearance she could only think scandalous, the color unmistakably artificial.

Edward was loosening his cravat, tugging it from around his neck and looking about the room with a searching gaze. Isabella turned upon the stool with some effort, watching with wide eyes as he finally settled upon flinging it over the night stand, then began shrugging out of his jacket and reaching up to hook it over the high bed post.

"What…"

"We have a bit more time. I'll fetch some of my things from my chamber…" he called over his shoulder as he strode through the door. He returned seconds later with a pair of breeches he casually tossed to the floor before turning back to her.

"I won't stay when you disrobe, but it will be best if you're wearing nothing when they come."

"I—" It was the first time she'd felt the instinct to protest, a hand at her throat, her mouth dry.

"No one would ever believe Isabella Swan would be found in these circumstances," his gaze darted around the room before returning to her face. "We must not allow them any reason to doubt." He crossed to her side, hands extended. "Because you are no longer Isabella Swan. You are…"

"Jane," she replied as she took his hands and allowed him to guide her back towards the bed.

"Jane," Edward repeated the name as he bent to shuck the covers to the foot of the bed, leaving only a tangled sheet. "A light skirt I picked up along the road."

"But what if they suspect—" Fear had begun to seep beneath the surprise and confusion that had so far marked the morning, and Isabella could not help the tremor in her voice as she slipped beneath the sheet.

"I will know," Edward's tone was grimly certain as he tugged the sheet up to her chin. "And I will not allow you to come to harm."

Isabella found she could only stare up at him with wide-eyed fear—for she did not doubt the veracity of his statement, or what it might mean for Captain Hale and Lawrence Eldritch should they see through this façade.

"Be sure to remove your gown once I've gone," Edward bid as he turned back to the door. He paused as he reached the threshold, glancing over his shoulder. "All will be well." The door closed behind him on his final words. "I promise."

Isabella endeavored to believe him, breathing in deeply as she gazed up to the bare wood beams overhead. Then, recalling his direction, she shimmied from the cotton nightgown, carefully pulling it over her head while ensuring the sheet still fully covered her body. She craned her neck, looking to where Edward had carefully discarded his breeches, then tossed the nightgown in the same general direction before allowing her head to fall back to the pillow without seeing where it landed.

She continued to stare with wide, frightened eyes at the ceiling but she did not see the smoke stained beams, too distracted by the scratchy sensation of the sheet directly against her skin, by the faint noises of the inn stirring to life, by the suspicion that no one with any intelligence would be fooled by the paint marking her face or the powder in her hair, and that Captain Hale and Lawrence Eldritch were set for the same fate as James Eldritch Junior. For she knew with no doubt that this was what Edward's promise had meant.

Isabella twisted against the mattress, inhaling sharply as she felt her thigh exposed to the air by the motion. She yanked at the sheet, a frown knitting her brow, her heart pounding as anger mixed with the fear throbbing in her chest. She suddenly felt deeply the resentment of being in this position, of pretending this façade of loose morals that she was perhaps all too fearful of coming true.

Though she knew she had no choice, she had now been in Edward's company alone for three nights, without a chaperone to ensure the propriety of their behavior. He had now seen her multiple times in an advanced state of undress, either soaking wet in her petticoat and shift, in her shift alone, or now in the loose cotton nightgown she wore to bed. Strangely, she did not find herself flushing at this thought—though she knew it was not his proposal that gave her any comfort for she still could not quite believe that he wouldn't apologetically rescind the offer once he came to his senses.

Isabella turned again, exhaling loudly as she strained to hear any noise beyond the door. However Edward was preoccupying himself in the adjoining sitting room, there was no sound to indicate his actions. Sagging back against the pillow, she returned to wondering at her lack of embarrassment at the intimacy that had grown between them in the wake of her rescue. Perhaps it was as simple as that, that she felt so safe in his presence in the aftermath of her near death that it did not occur to her to feel self-conscious in his company. But somehow, she knew it was something more, something deeper…

The sound of a distant knock sent her heart racing against her ribs, her hands momentarily fisting in the sheets. Her eyes were wide, teeth clenched with fear. But then she remembered—Jane would not be nervous, Jane would feel no fear. She forced herself to relax, stretching tight muscles beneath the thin sheet—but could not help straining to hear the sound of voices engaged in brief conversation, Edward's low baritone replying to that of a maid. But what were they saying? She longed to leap from the bed and throw the door wide but knew any chance of the deception's success would be utterly undermined by such an action.

Isabella tried to breathe as evenly as possible, striving for the calm that had seemed necessary when summoning Sheil, or drawing wild birds to her finger tips—for how else could she forget herself, forget who she was and the danger she was in? How else could she kick a leg from beneath the sheet with the realization that she had grown heated and agitated beneath the light cover, barely sparing a thought for how she might appear.

There was a second distant knock but she did not start, simply rolling over and away from the door as if weary of the constant interruption to her sleep. The voices which now spoke were much louder and more strident than that of the docile maid that had likely come to alert Edward to the visitors he had belowstairs. Isabella struggled to listen with mild curiosity rather than growing panic.

"Mr. Maçon, I apologize for imposing upon you so suddenly but you understand we must ensure the Swan girl has not sought sanctuary with you."

"That is an astonishing conclusion to have reached," Edward's low voice replied to Captain Hale's flimsy apology. Isabella could nearly picture his languid posture by the vague amusement in his tone.

"Don't be coy, Maçon," Lawrence Eldritch's voice was less familiar but she was certain it was him, his impatience evident. "You called at the chit's home several times—the entire neighborhood knew it. And you were seen to dance with her at the last assembly ball."

"And on such a slight acquaintance," Edward's tone remained amused but she could sense a hint of terseness to the words, "you presume I would abscond with her from Cornwall."

"So you're aware of my brother's death?" Lawrence Eldritch bit out.

"The news was widely spoken of in Porthleven." Then, almost as an afterthought, "I am quite sorry for your loss."

Attempting to return to the topic at hand, Captain Hale blustered, "I would understand if you had given the girl your word, then you would be obliged to honor your promise."

There was a faint huff of laughter. "As you can see," Edward replied, "she is not here nor have I had word from her."

"What reason have we to trust him?" Lawrence Eldritch appeared to be speaking to Captain Hale, dismissive of Edward's languid, amused responses. Her heart stuttered as the image of his father abruptly filled her mind on the terrifying occasion of his last call at Swan Cottage. Her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to blot out the memory of blood pooling beneath his head, shaking her head against the pillow as she heard James Eldritch Junior's voice in her head, enraged and accusatory.

"_You brought this about with your cunning!"_

Isabella swallowed and opened her eyes, silently insisting to herself that she was a different person, a person who had witnessed no such horrors. She was no more than a woman of loose morals vaguely curious about the conversation beyond the door.

"…what of this sister the innkeeper spoke of?" Lawrence Eldritch had gone on, his voice gaining volume in proportion to his ill-temper and exhaustion. "This man is nothing but a foreigner with no ties to this place!"

"I may be a foreigner," Edward abruptly broke in, speaking sharply with his own growing ire. "But I am a man of my word. And, as you can see, she is not here."

"But what of the bedchamber?" Lawrence asked, unwilling to concede, a note of stubborn insistence that reminded her of his brother evident in his tone. "She could easily be beyond one of these doors."

There was a long pause and Isabella could nearly picture the sly smile that must have curled over Edward's lips as he next spoke. "Gentlemen," he responded, "I never said I was alone. I simply said she was not here."

She thought the laugh she heard in response belonged to that of portly Captain Hale, but she could not be sure.

Edward was adding, speaking over the laughter, "You could forgive me for failing to divulge to the innkeeper the true nature of my traveling...companion."

She knew what must come next and endeavored with all of her will to be still, knowing that if she was to successfully play her role, she could not be nervous and flustered.

The door cracked open, but she did not immediately respond, simply shifting upon the sheets as if disturbed from her sleep.

"Ma'am?" A surprisingly timid voice spoke.

Isabella did not lift her head from the pillow, too aware of the unwilling flush blooming across her cheeks, struggling to forget how exposed she was beneath the sheet, her backside barely covered by the rough fabric.

"Ma'am," the voice called again, a note of embarrassment apparent.

"Who wants me?" Isabella roughly asked, the words inflected with a heavy Cornish burr, her voice low with feigned grogginess.

"It isn't her," Captain Hale's voice urgently whispered.

"The Justice of the Peace of Mousehole," Lawrence Eldritch replied, unwilling to give up just yet.

Isabella shifted her hips, partly rolling over though she kept her face averted. "Mousehole?" She chortled. "Arsehole more like."

"It isn't her!" Captain Hale's voice had gained force, disappointment and impatience apparent in his tone.

"Nevermind," Lawrence Eldritch finally grumbled with equal disappointment before the door slammed shut.

Isabella could not help the whoosh of air that passed her lips as she sagged against the mattress, unaware of the tension that had riddled her muscles over the course of the exchange. Her back was damp with sweat, the sheet clinging to her skin.

"Apologies, Mr. Maçon," Captain Hales' voice was gruff. "You understand we had to check all avenues."

"As you insist," Edward replied, his voice indolent.

"If you do hear anything—" Lawrence Eldritch broke back into the conversation, ever insistent, irritation and mistrust apparent in his voice.

"I will alert you presently," Edward promptly finished the statement for him, the words infused with charm and condescension.

"Thank you." Captain Hale attempted to maintain a modicum of manners with this gracious response before there was the reassuring stomp of departing feet. But Isabella dared not move from the bed, however anxious she felt to don her shift and cover her nakedness.

There was no sound from the adjacent room for several minutes more before the door abruptly flew open. Edward was at her side without her gaze discerning his passage through the bedchamber, his smile brilliant as he bent towards her, his cold hands wrapping around one of her own.

"You were amazing."

But she could not feel his relief. Even if Captain Hale and Lawrence Eldritch were never to darken her door again, she knew something had unmistakably altered—though, perhaps, that alteration had occurred from the moment Edward pulled her from the depths of the dark water, whisking her away from a danger even greater than Captain Hale's biased judgment. Now, though, she could not help but see how starkly removed she was from the life she had led before, from the propriety, manners, and morals of a young lady however reduced in circumstances.

"Did you mean it?" She spoke before she knew what she intended. Only as the words passed her lips could she hear the desperation in her tone, unaware of how wide were her eyes as she gazed up at the smile rapidly fading from his pale face. His black gaze grew confused as his hands loosened their grasp around her own.

"What do you…" The questioning fragment lingered between them, the statement unfinished for her lips had parted, all too ready to answer…but she suddenly fell silent, catching her bottom lip between worried teeth.

Isabella knew she must explain herself but could not help lifting a hand first, angrily wiping at the rouge she knew still stained her lips. It suddenly felt difficult to take a breath though no restrictive stays bound her ribs. "Did you mean what you said?" Her voice trembled but she did not know whether it was with anxiety or anger. Her gaze fell, unable see the relief she knew must infuse Edward's expression when she broached the topic. But she could not ask him to bind himself to her, not now.

"When we are wed," she whispered, repeating his promise from the night before. She shook her head, closing her eyes tightly to what she knew she must say. "I cannot hold you to it."

She felt rather than saw him sit upon the mattress, the bed sagging with his weight. The silence felt leaden and long, a weight she sank beneath as she waited for him to speak. "Why should my intentions have changed?" His voice was rough, as if he were restraining himself from biting out the words.

Isabella bit her lip again, uncaring of the sharp pain that accompanied the violent motion, fighting back tears. She was mortified to hear the emotion in her voice when she spoke. "I no longer have a reputation to speak of." She told herself she had not accompanied him from Porthleven with the assumption that he still held honorable intentions towards her, so it was no disappointment to return to the future she had imagined for herself before. It was better this way—that she find some living under another name, that she not burden him any more than she already had. "I had very little to begin with…and now I have nothing." She shook her head. "You would be excused by anyone for having a change of heart."

Another long silence lapsed in which she was certain she was going to fling herself from the bed, bare-skinned or not, unable to bear his inscrutable wordlessness. For she knew what he would say, she knew her fate; it had been foolishness to think any other outcome was possible, to have harbored any hope about his offer. It had been an honorable impulse, nothing more.

Only Edward's hand was gently taking her own, stilling the fidgeting she did not know had seized her fingers. She longed to return his grasp but forced herself to be still, her gaze rising unwillingly to meet his black eyes.

Isabella was surprised to find his countenance bearing an expression she did not think she had witnessed upon his features before; it was a mixture of surprise and amusement, his dark eyes regarding her from beneath lifted brows, his lips twitching with what appeared to be restrained laughter. She had seen him aloof, and teasing, and often more composed than herself, but this was unfamiliar and jarring. Her own brow furrowed with confusion as she watched varying emotions play across his pale features.

When he finally spoke, his voice was wry yet somehow annoyed. "You are under the misapprehension that I am some prize."

Isabella took a breath to speak, to remark upon his manners, his fine garb, his clear breeding—even now, with his throat bare, the crisp white fabric of his shirt and the brushed velvet of his waistcoat indicated his wealth and refinement. But he did not allow a word to pass her lips, his expression shifting, brows lowering over his eyes, black eyes piercing as he abruptly asked, "Why have you not asked me what I am?"

Isabella was caught completely off guard by this question, her mouth gaping as her eyes flared wide, staring at him in wonder. "I—I…" she began, before shaking her head and endeavoring to begin again. "Everything has happened so quickly." She swallowed as her gaze cut away, realizing this was not entirely the reason as soon as she spoke the words. "I know not what to think from one moment to the next. And—and," her gaze lifted to the shadowed ceiling, struggling to find the words, to explain why her curiosity about his abilities was rarely what she found herself dwelling upon in the small hours of the morning.

Her gaze returned to his, her voice growing calm and certain as she uttered the words. "You saved my life." She paused. "What objection can I hold to you?"

Edward regarded her steadily but his brows did not lift, the frown deepening upon his forehead as his lips thinned with what appeared to be anger.

Isabella continued, her own anger flaring to life in response to this indication of his ire. "And you have not judged what _I_ am." She tugged her hand from his, gesturing at him as if to fling his words back at him. "You have not questioned it! You have saved me from those who would destroy me for the truth of what I am!" She shook her head before repeating the question, striving to lower her voice from its agitated volume. "What objection can I hold?"

Edward rose in one abrupt motion, almost too swiftly for her eyes to see. He paced to the door before turning back again, his gaze fixed on the floor, on his hands, on anything but for the trusting girl watching him from the bed. "I cannot explain it—" he began, the words bursting from his lips almost unwillingly, his hands gesturing in sharp motions. "It has no reason." He stopped, forcing himself to lift his eyes and meet her confused, concerned gaze, all of her anger gone at this demonstration of his agitation and turmoil.

But he could not go on seeing that concern—concern for him, for his reputation, for his future. His gaze fell and he found himself crossing to the hearth before turning back, the words coming in a flurry. "I have never considered consequences, never thought of anyone besides myself—and those impulses are still there." His hands balled into tight fists at his sides, admitting as much as he dared. "I long to bind you to me while you are still ignorant of what I am, to keep you for myself like some treasure squirrelled away."

His eyes were nearly wild as his gaze lifted, moving towards her with steps that were unnaturally swift, one hand held open, pale palm wide and supplicating. "Do you see? I am no prize. My promise to you is as much for myself as it is for you."

Isabella's eyes were wide and almost frightened as she considered him, so tormented and more unrestrained than she had ever seen.

Edward's hand dropped as his eyes fell to the floor, his composure partly returned, his voice regaining some sobriety and control. "And for all that..." He breathed deeply, his gaze slowly rising to her meet her own.

"For all that, the better you think of me, the more I wish to make your assumptions true."


	23. Trials

_A comment on the last chapter speculated as to how Isabella might have appeared in cosmetics. Some of the resources I used to get a sense of just how much rouge (and other cosmetics) women used to alter their appearance in the Georgian era is can be seen on Demode Couture's site, under the Women's Hairstyles & Cosmetics entry. Lots of great pictures towards the end of the article showing the amount of rouge and speaking to the class implications in France vs. England. Another example with some portraits from the Regency era is available on Jane Austen's World under their article reviewing the book 'A Deadly Fashion: Beauty & Cosmetics 1550-1950.' __Such rosy cheeks!_

_Thanks so much for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>I had so much to think of, of the dangers I now doubted I had escaped, of the loving friends I had left …that I the less thought of the way, till I was startled out of my meditations by the sun beginning to set, and still the man driving on, and his horses sweating and foaming; and then I began to be alarmed all at once…My heart began then to misgive me a little, and I was very much fatigued; for I had no sleep for several nights before, to signify…Lord, thought I…More trials still!—What will befall me next?<em>

_Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded  
><em>_Samuel Richards_

**twenty three**

Whenever the carriage wheels found a stretch of road less pocked with ruts and pits, Isabella's eyes would slowly sink shut, her body gently swaying with the steady, lulling motion of the vehicle. But without fail, the carriage would soon violently rock as one of the wheels dropped into a deep rut, sending the cab jerking and bouncing with such force that sleep was but a fantasy.

Isabella's heart fluttered in her breast with guilt that she could not sleep, for she knew Edward had made every effort to ensure her comfort. Lap blankets were piled three deep around her figure, and a foot warmer rested beneath her slippered feet warding away the chill of the evening air. She knew he desired that she rest during the journey, especially given the frightful encounter that morning with Captain Hale and Lawrence Eldritch. But even when the carriage found a smooth patch of road and her eyes drifted shut, a whirlwind of images danced behind her lids, taunting and disturbing.

She saw her own features, pale and smeared with paint, brown eyes wide and troubled as she met her own gaze in the looking glass. It had taken her some time to move to the pitcher of water on the washstand and wipe away the cosmetics that marked her face after Edward had confirmed Captain Hale and Lawrence Eldritch were truly gone; she was uncertain it was not more fitting that she leave her altered appearance as it was. She saw Edward's bright, manic gaze as he paced the floorboards of her bedchamber, his pale hand reaching towards her, a pleading gesture. She heard his words, repeating how unworthy he was of her.

… _I am no prize. My promise to you is as much for myself as it is for you…_

Her eyes flared open as the carriage bounced over a series of pits, likely caused by the latest spring rains. But she did not see the dim interior of the cab, or the carriage lamps that glowed beyond the doors, illuminating the deepening night. Instead, she saw the dream that she somehow knew not to be a dream, the image of her mother rushing around an unfamiliar room before turning to the door with a smile so brilliant and joyful, there could be no mistaking who was on the other side.

Did any of Edward's claims truly matter? Did it matter what might lie in his past? She had known him to be nothing but honorable and gallant; any falsehood she had overheard that morning had been to ensure her own safety. If dishonesty and dissolution marked his past, what did it matter in the present? She had been drawn to him long before he saved her life, and could not bring herself to think anything but highly of him.

Her teeth worried her lip for she found she could not escape this circle of thoughts, attempting to convince herself that she should heed what he said…but finding it impossible to alter her opinion of him. She did not know whether it was a boon or a misfortune that Edward did not ride with her in the cab, for she was uncertain she could have brought herself to be anything but tense and awkward with him, longing to seek reassurances she felt certain he would not give.

Because they intended to journey through the night, Edward perched with the coachman on the box; though the likelihood of highwaymen intent upon assault was much less than what it had been in her childhood, Edward had insisted upon acting as an additional defense should they encounter trouble. She did not wonder that he might still harbor concerns about Captain Hale or Lawrence Eldritch, but perhaps abstained from voicing his lingering worries to prevent her own anxiety.

Isabella heaved a sigh as the carriage swayed with the steady pace of the horses' gait. It had been hours since they had last stopped at a busy posting inn, the sky bruised and gray with the coming twilight. She had not moved to leave the cab, however much she longed to stretch her legs and lift her face to the weak light of day. As she had done the prior day whenever they stopped to change horses, she sank into the bench seat, attempting to make herself invisible and worthy of no notice. Given the hour, Edward had appeared with a parcel of food purchased from the inn's kitchen, his gaze concerned but distracted as he asked whether she was comfortable. She had silently nodded before quietly asking, "We've reached Devon?"

Despite her weariness, her curiosity had remained unabated over the course of day as the countryside transitioned from low lands, green and studded here and there with herds of sheep, to a land more rolling and forested. She had repeatedly felt the horses slow as the carriage climbed and crested hills, leaning forward to peer through the windows at the countryside that unfolded around them.

"We've reached Upton Cross," he replied, glancing over his shoulder to the courtyard of the posting inn. "The Tamar is still ten to fifteen miles distant. We may reach the river in an hour—perhaps more if I'm unable to find a coachman who is willing to travel through the night."

"Through the night…" Isabella had echoed, her voice hollow. She had felt Edward's attention return to her pale face but she was too taken aback by his plan to note the concern evident in his gaze.

"I want to reach London as quickly as possible and avoid any chance of repeating this morning's encounter." His lips thinned, his voice grimly determined as he added, "It is truly only a matter of naming the right price to find someone willing to take the risk."

Isabella had no notion of what phase the moon might be in that night, but she was certain Edward had no care for whether it was full or not. She had simply swallowed and nodded before sinking back against the bench seat and struggling to find her appetite for the food he had brought her.

Eventually, Edward had found a coachman willing to travel past sunset, but they were required to change conveyances in order to continue their journey. Isabella had kept her head bowed low as she crossed the posting inn courtyard with her hand upon Edward's forearm, not daring to watch as the hostlers hefted their baggage from one carriage to the other. She had been terrified of meeting anyone's gaze lest they somehow recognize her. Was it possible news of her misadventures could have reached as far as Upton Cross? Though, of course, it was not so far if she considered they had not yet traversed beyond Cornwall's borders—however far it might feel to one who had never been further east than Penzance.

Despite the discomfort of rocking and bouncing upon a bench seat for hours, Isabella had been relieved to climb the lowered steps into the cab of a carriage. Some time passed as the baggage was secured, the horses were hitched to their harnesses, and Edward convinced the innkeeper to sell him several lap blankets and a foot warmer for their journey. Before long, they were returned to the road.

As the sky darkened and the stars began to speckle the blackness above, she knew she should endeavor to sleep but the condition of the dry roads, rutted and marked by deep pits, as well as her own chaotic thoughts made slumber an impossibility. Instead, she drifted in and out of drowsiness, startled from wild, troubled half-dreams to find herself surrounded by darkness, the only sound her own breath and the steady trop of horse hooves.

It was in this manner that she found herself nearly jumping from the seat at the sound of the coachman's voice, bellowing for the hostlers to come see to his horses. Briefly, she experienced the disorientation of placing where she was, and struggling for several heartbeats to understand why she wasn't in her bed at Swan Cottage with Sheil's impatient voice calling from downstairs.

But the confusion was gone in an instant as the image of Mr. Eldritch's gray face, blood pooling beneath his head, flashed across her mind; her eyes sank shut as she saw Sheil hauled away by one of the drovers that had accompanied James Eldritch Junior to the cottage; she felt anew the sting of rocks and pebbles dashing against her flesh, her breath coming in pants by the time the carriage door swung open, filling the cab with cool air.

"Isabella?" Her name was on Edward's lips and she forced herself to open her eyes, struggling to find his gaze in the darkness. The oil in the carriage lamps had burned out, but a distant yellow light was slowly bobbing its way towards them.

The yellow halo of the candle illuminated the small figure of what was apparently the innkeeper, his bald head covered by a pointed night cap, his jaw dark with stubble. When he spoke, his voice was drowsy but accommodating. "I apologize, sir, it's simply that we had all retired for the night."

"No matter," Edward replied, glancing over his shoulder to the diminutive man. Isabella saw he was wrapped in a thin velveteen robe, the white linen of his nightshirt peeking through the folds. "If you have rooms my wife and I—"

"But of course, sir," the innkeeper replied, nodding his head as he rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. "I'll wake Wills and see that your things are unloaded."

Isabella watched the yellow light bob away with a degree of regret for the road curving before the inn appeared to be unpopulated by other businesses or homes, its location apparently some distance from the nearest town—much like where they had stayed in St. Austell but even more remote and isolated. She glanced to the starry sky as she stepped down from the cab with stiff motions, her muscles protesting as she discarded the lap blankets and took Edward's hand. "You slept?" Edward quietly asked.

"Against my will," she wryly replied. "Though I imagine I should sleep well enough now."

She lifted a hand to the back of her neck as she tried to make out the dimensions of the inn, squinting through the dark as the innkeeper disappeared inside. A single lantern hung next to the door, but its tallow candle was flickering and weak, illuminating little beside the vague shape of a sign swinging above, and the heavy oak of the door itself. It appeared to be more than one story, the high roof obscuring the woods that crowded close. The only sound was the whispering of the breeze in the leafy boughs, the stars glittering above.

"We made it as far as Bridestowe," Edward quietly explained. "The coachman would have liked to linger in Tavistock but I would prefer we avoid the busier locales."

"Of course," she nodded. They were allowed to say no more for the innkeeper was returning with a drowsy manservant on his heels.

"If you'll come this way, Mr.—"

"Lefevre," Edward smoothly replied.

Isabella did not react to this false name, her gaze cast to the ground as she placed a hand trembling with exhaustion upon Edward's forearm. The innkeeper continued to speak, explaining that the coals of the kitchen fire could be stoked and a pot of soup warmed if they wished to eat; but Isabella was already shaking her head in silent response and Edward, sensing the motion, interrupted before the innkeeper could continue.

"Please don't trouble yourself. If rooms could be readied, that should be all my wife and I require."

There were more words exchanged as they entered a darkened common room, the innkeeper lifting his chamberstick high to illuminate the unrelieved blackness around them. Isabella found she could not attend to the conversation, her mind weary yet racing and unable to focus on anything but for placing one foot in front of the other as they climbed a narrow staircase to the upper floor.

"It's the only remaining set of rooms—I realize they're quite small. I can likely ask another guest to change with you in the morning—"

"No, this shall do," Edward reassured him as the innkeeper opened the door onto what was more of a small foyer rather than a full sitting room; a single chair sat next to a table that was likely meant for dining as well as writing. A window curtained in simple linen provided the only light, a framed panel of embroidery hanging above the small fireplace.

The innkeeper continued speaking as he moved to the table to light the candle there, stepping aside so the manservant could lug their baggage into the bedchamber beyond. "Guests generally take their meals belowstairs but I can always arrange to send something up should you wish…" It took some additional minutes to assure the innkeeper that his solicitousness was appreciated before he and the servant took their leave. Isabella had barely noted the closing of the door behind their figures before she realized Edward had disappeared from her side, flitting into the bedchamber to inspect the room more thoroughly.

His nose was vaguely wrinkled as he returned to her side, his tone apologetic as he spoke, "I'm afraid it's little better than a barracks—"

"Now you sound like the innkeeper," Isabella tiredly laughed. "I'm certain I'll survive."

"You are more forgiving than me," Edward wryly replied. "But that we both already know." As he spoke, he took the chamberstick the innkeeper had lit, a single tallow stub in a shallow pewter dish, and moved toward the bedchamber. He paused upon the threshold and she could sense his distaste in the moment of hesitation, before he crossed into the room and began to light the fresh tapers on either side of the bed.

"I shan't need the bed tonight," he began, turning back to face her once the room was illuminated. Isabella had followed him as far as the threshold, her hands nervously clasped before her. "I intend to double back and ensure we were not followed."

"You are not weary?" Even as she spoke the words, Isabella knew the question to be ludicrous. Her gaze fell to the bare floorboards but not before she saw Edward wryly shake his head.

"I am well, and eager to confirm Captain Hale and Lawrence Eldritch have lost any interest in me." He hesitated as her apparent anxiety did not abate. "You will be perfectly safe alone. Only the coachman is aware we have come this far. Even if Captain Hale has inexplicably determined to follow us, he could not have possibly traveled as far as this before morning."

Isabella nodded, struggling to be brave though she could not meet his gaze. He had left her before, journeying back to Mousehole to fetch her things, venturing into Porthleven to ascertain how far the tale of her misadventure had reached. Why should this be any different?

She glanced to the bedchamber window and saw only blackness beyond the yellowed linen that framed the leaded panes. There was no light from candles burning at nearby houses or pubs, no trop of horse hooves and rattle of carriage wheels creaking over cobblestones, no burble of conversation from hostlers and travelers in the courtyard; there was only the faint rush of the wind in the tree tops, and the beat of her own heart in her ears.

"Bridestowe," she murmured. Isabella felt she should be reassured by the apparent remoteness of the village, that fewer people meant there was less potential for anyone to recognize her—or for Lawrence Eldritch to inflame a curious crowd into a mob with his invective.

"Yes," Edward nodded as he set the chamberstick down upon the simple night stand and crossed to her side. She sensed his desire to physically comfort her but his hands remained at his sides, restlessly curling and uncurling into loose fists. "Dartmoor is at our very backs and a maze of rivers crosses before us. I do not fear we will need either, but prefer this quiet village to Tavistock." He had repeatedly mentioned the larger town as their destination, likely a misleading ploy for anyone who chanced to overhear them.

He finally took her hand, his touch and voice gentle. "You should change and retire as soon as I am gone. I know it has been a long journey and we have more days of travel yet before us." These final words were regretful and full of apology.

Isabella nodded wearily, thinking of the many hours ahead of her in a rattling, bouncing carriage, unable to sleep, unable to think straight. She shook her head at these self-pitying thoughts, realizing nothing could be done for it. Her hand briefly tightened around Edward's own before she lifted her head, a small smile playing over her lips.

"Do you know Sheil—and likely all country nursemaids—used to tell stories of Dartmoor?" Her voice was quiet as she changed the subject, releasing his hand to unknot the ties that secured her cloak. She sensed rather than saw Edward shake his head, her gaze cast to her feet as she shrugged out of the cloak. "Sheil was not much for tales of fright and terror, far preferring stories of gallantry and romance." Isabella softly laughed as she laid the cloak at the end of the bed. "But perhaps she had heard this tale often enough herself as a girl that it did not occur to her to refrain from sharing it with me." Isabella fought the sadness that she knew tinged the words, refusing to think of how unlikely it was that she would ever see Sheil again.

Her gaze fell to her hands as she drew off her gloves, her voice light as she continued, "The tale was of a notorious squire, a malicious man rumored to have killed his wife—and so ambitious he had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for immortality." Her eyes rose in time to find Edward's feature's carefully composed, his black eyes only mildly curious as he listened to her repeat the story she had often heard at Sheil's knee. "When the squire died and was buried, he would not remain in his grave. A phantom pack of hounds appeared to bay and howl at his tomb—and he rose from the ground, and led the pack of hounds across Dartmoor."

"A most dedicated hunter," Edward wryly replied.

Isabella couldn't help her laughter, and was suddenly grateful for his levity. "It's too fanciful, isn't it?" she asked, before turning away and regarding the narrow bed with a wistful gaze. "I truly should retire as you have suggested." She shook her head, thinking how tired she must be to delay him with childhood tales. "You are right—I am perfectly safe."

"I would not leave you otherwise," Edward quietly replied.

Isabella nodded, unresisting as he took her hand again and bowed to lay a delicate kiss across her finger tips. Moments later he was gone, as quiet as a spirit as he took his leave through the bedchamber window. The night was so dark, she did not see him disappear over the roof top.

But however weary she felt, however relieved her muscles and bones as she laid upon the stiff mattress, she found she could not bring her eyes to close, staring with a wide, fixed gaze into the darkness.

She thought of Sheil, her gnarled hands gentle when she shook Isabella awake when she'd been abed too long, the morning sun high in the sky. She thought of her mother, the musical sound of her voice as she called out in French from the dining room, bidding Isabella to come eat her supper. She thought of Mr. Eldritch coming to call when her father was home on furlough, his two boys stiff and formal as they bowed to her in greeting. Her mind drifted to that innocuous day, cast over with clouds but hinting at the coming warmth of spring, when she had felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle and stand up, alive with anticipation. _I was hoping you might be able to tell me where this road leads…_

Isabella lay in this manner for what seemed like hours. It wasn't until she caught herself fitfully dozing and abruptly started awake, alert and listening, that she realized she was waiting for Edward's return. Though the room was still black as pitch, she found she could not remain still, her breath panting from her lungs with every second that she tried to linger beneath the covers. Quickly, before she could think better of it, she threw back the thin counterpane and rose to her feet. She stood unmoving for some time, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, listening for she knew not what. There was enough faint light filtering through the curtains that she could begin to make out the furniture around her, her bare toes curling into the worn floorboards as she wished she'd allowed the innkeeper to light a fire.

A frown furrowed her brow as she thought of how long she had lain in bed, waiting and listening for Edward's return. It had seemed an eternity but it did not appear dawn had begun to spill across the horizon; she moved to the bedchamber window, pushing back the curtain with chilled fingers to see the unrelieved darkness of the night sky, the moon obscured by clouds.

Isabella crossed to the bedchamber door, determined to find a tinderbox—perhaps upon the narrow mantel above the fireplace or in a drawer of the writing table in the minuscule sitting room. She simply knew she could not abide sitting in this darkness any longer, not when she was so certain she could not sleep, not when she was beginning to worry that something unthinkable might have delayed Edward. Just as she reached the table, groping for the drawers to determine their contents, the sound of a heavy knock upon a distant door sounded down the hall.

Isabella froze, her eyes flaring wide, her breath caught in her throat. By what cause should someone think to disturb any of the inn's guests at this time of night? Could it be her pursuers, hard upon her heels despite Edward's best efforts?

The knock sounded again, more insistent and accompanied by a low voice. Was it Captain Hale, searching the inn even now, as she stood stupid and frozen looking for a blasted tinderbox to light a candle?

Isabella's feet abruptly attempted to move in two directions, first towards the sitting room door which opened into the hallway, thinking to crack it open and peer through, satisfying her curiosity. But she nearly stumbled over her own feet in a simultaneous attempt to dart back to the bedchamber, realizing how foolish it was to expose herself in attempting to confirm it was truly her pursuers in the corridor. Had she lost her senses?!

She unwittingly slammed the bedchamber door behind her, spinning on her heel and gulping in fear as she realized the sound was very likely to attract notice. Her gaze darted around the room, her breath panting from her lungs, seeking something, anything with which to defend herself, or perhaps a place to hide—

A loud knock sounded, distinct and clear, from what she knew could only be the door to the tiny sitting room.

Isabella spun, racing to the bedchamber window, uncaring of her bare feet, of the thin, voluminous nightdress billowing around her frame, of her loose hair hanging down her back. She was through the unlatched window like an arrow from a quiver, barely registering the feeling of the rough window frame beneath her palms and bare feet, the cold night air against her face.

The eave overhanging the ground story of the inn was several feet below the window and she dropped to the slanted surface in a graceless heap, struggling for breath and calm, realizing she must remain quiet if she was to escape detection. But no sooner had she begun to unfold her arms from beneath her frame than she realized she was sliding down the steeply pitched surface; it took all of her effort to refrain from crying out as she grasped at the mossy shingles, fighting for purchase.

But she was not Edward. Her limbs held no magical qualities that allowed her to balance on surfaces that only birds could navigate with ease. She slid, down and down, scrambling with hands and nails, grunting with effort and gasping for air. Down and down until her legs dangled over the ledge, eyes wide as she ceased all efforts to be quiet, slapping with open palms at the shingles, fighting with gritted teeth to hang on.

But it was no use. As her hands clutched only air, she sucked in a breath, bracing for impact.


	24. Deceived

Thank you so much for taking the time to read & review.

* * *

><p>—<em>what a dream!—what a dream!—how has he deceived me!—or, alas! how have I deceived myself!<em>

_Camilla, A Picture of Youth  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**twenty four**

Isabella lay in a stunned heap on the cold ground for several seconds, the air knocked from her lungs, eyes wide and staring at the slice of starry sky wheeling above her.

As the stars righted themselves, she rapidly realized she was still at risk of being discovered; her clumsy slide down the inn's roof might have woken other guests or servants, and she had no idea who had been abovestairs banging on doors in the middle of the night. She scrambled to her feet and darted towards the nearby trees, the skirt of her nightdress gathered in damp palms, glancing over her shoulder in fear.

Once she had reached the trees, her gaze rose to the second story of the inn, looking to the dark window from which she'd just scrambled in a manner that she knew resembled that of a lunatic. But she could think of no other way to have escaped whoever might have been on the other side of the door—and she could not begin to think to what purpose anyone would bang on doors at this hour. From this distance, she could see the drop to the ground from the slanted eave was not far, but she still could not help wondering that she did not feel more than breathless and a bit bedraggled from her fall. She swallowed a near hysterical chuckle at all that she had somehow survived in these past days, wondering if she had unwittingly made a deal with the devil in exchange for immortality.

The thought was quickly forgotten as the sound of a door shifting open interrupted the quiet stillness of the night, a voice calling out soon after. "Who goes there?"

The innkeeper's more timid voice quietly followed, "Do you see anyone, Wills?"

"I can venture a bit further out, sir."

Isabella needed no other prompting, melting back into the stands of trees and brush, carefully stepping on sensitive feet to ensure she broke no branch or twig and gave away her presence; she had already created enough of a disturbance for one night. Only when the inn was entirely out of sight did she slow her pace, exhaling with relief as the sound of voices became more and more distant…and finally faded into nothing.

The adrenaline that had powered her flight from the moment she had first heard the insistent knock from the inn's corridor flagged as fast as it had speared through her; shoulders sagging with breathlessness, she raised a hand to brace herself against the rough trunk of a tree, panting wearily. She could not believe how wildly she had fled the rooms—but was it truly so mad when she considered the threat Captain Hale and Lawrence Eldritch presented? She had nearly lost her life only three days before. Isabella shook her head, refusing to feel foolish for her sudden, desperate act—even if it should prove that she was wrong about the cause.

As she mulled over her decision she realized she must begin to determine a response to the consequences. For though she was certain she was no longer in danger, her surroundings were hardly ideal. As she regained her breath, she raised her gaze to the black, shadowed woods, the brightness of the stars largely obscured by clouds above.

Isabella struggled to think of what to do next. She could not return to the inn as she had left it, unable to scale rooftops without Edward's abilities…or assistance. She also knew she could not return to it as she had originally arrived, garbed in only her nightdress, her hair a tumbled mess, her feet bare. She could not begin to think how unhappy Edward would be with the amount of attention and notice such an unusual occurrence would draw; it would likely be gossiped of for days and spread to the surrounding villages, defeating all of his efforts to travel unobtrusively and without notice.

Isabella frowned as she sank against the tree, leaning more heavily against the cracked, rutted bark of the trunk. Surely Edward would discover her missing upon his return and would seek her out. Given he bore the means to return them both to the inn without notice, perhaps it was simply a matter of waiting for him. She tried not to dwell on how he had not returned to the inn at St. Austell until nearly morning, shivering and wrapping her arms about herself at the thought of remaining in the woods of Dartmoor the entire night.

She briefly thought of summoning him, lips twisting and brow furrowing as she considered the idea. But she was not truly in jeopardy—she was simply stranded due to her own panic, which she was not entirely certain had been warranted. She did not want to cause a similar panic in Edward, especially as she was not entirely certain his reaction to this incident wouldn't already be one of ire and impatience.

Isabella finally decided she should simply wait, lip caught beneath her teeth, eyes anxiously scanning the woods; she could not see more than a few yards around her, and all was quiet and painted in tones of black and gray. She thought to sink to the ground but realized the cold would seep into her bones far more quickly that way. Given the innkeeper and his manservant had likely retired to their beds, she realized she might regain the ground she had lost and be that much closer at hand for when Edward returned…

Only she found that weaving through the trees and low scrub did not return her to the inn as quickly as she would have thought. And in the gloom of night, nothing looked familiar, one towering oak covered in downy moss much the same as the next. She found herself stumbling over a boulder that she was certain she had not encountered in her flight from the inn…but perhaps she had been moving too quickly to see it, and given the impenetrable darkness…

Isabella abruptly plopped down on the rock, realizing she might only lose herself more fully in the surrounding woods if she were to continue this foolish errand. She clearly had no idea of her bearings, the moon obscured by clouds and leafy tree tops, and her knowledge of the constellations was minimal—as was her recollection of the inn's location in reference to those stars. She exhaled loudly, exasperated with herself and desperately hoping Edward would not be thoroughly irate with her once he returned…if he returned.

But she could not allow herself to venture such desperate thoughts. She knew of his speed, of his strength; she thought of his impossible ability to cross miles of countryside without tiring, of the wild leaps he'd taken to enter and exit an inn unseen. She closed her eyes as she thought of James Eldritch Junior, his life snuffed out by means she still did not understand.

The wind whispered overhead and Isabella opened her eyes and lifted her chin, pushing away these thoughts. Edward would find her. He must.

She thought back to their conversation before his departure, lips tilting as she recalled the silly childhood tale she'd repeated in an attempt to distract herself from her fear of monsters that paled in comparison to the humans who wished her harm. She shook her head as she gazed around the dark, quiet woods, a smile flitting over her lips at the thought of a Restoration era squire bellowing after a pack of demonic hounds.

Isabella suddenly stilled, the words she'd spoken earlier echoing in her ears.

…_so ambitious he had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for immortality…_

The final word reverberated through her head, a taunting whisper. Her lips parted, brow furrowing as she thought of the little history Edward had shared only the prior night, his hands wrapped around her own, his posture one of supplication.

_And then…the revolution came…_

By her accounting, he could have been no more than a young boy, likely only a few years out of leading strings, when the Bastille was stormed. But he'd spoken as if he'd experienced the turmoil and upheaval of the revolution as an adult, as if it had occurred after all of the other events he'd related.

Isabella chewed her lip, trying to make sense of what he'd told her. She shook her head as she realized it was ridiculous to think that immortality was the answer to the riddle. Such a thing was impossible.

Her eyes sank shut as she recalled her own strange powers, inexplicable and told of in fairy tales and folklore; her hands grew cold as she thought of Edward's own impossible abilities. She shook her head more violently, unwilling to believe that Edward had made a deal with the devil, that this was the unworthiness he spoke of. It couldn't be true.

But her thoughts on this matter were completely disrupted by a sudden chill washing over her skin despite the still night air. She turned her head, a feeling of hollow darkness abruptly filling her stomach, the hair on the back of her neck alive and afire with anticipation.

Someone was coming.

Isabella no longer misled herself with the thought that she had heard footsteps or the sound of creaking carriage wheels, the sensation one she could recognize and identify as clearly as the feeling of hunger or weariness. Someone was coming in the darkness—she knew not who, only that she must flee.

Her palms damp with sweat, her heart racing, Isabella leapt from the boulder on which she'd been sitting and barreled headlong into the black forest, desperate to escape the force she knew was pursuing her. Was it the immortal squire and his demonic pack of hounds? Could it be some other impossible phantasm, like the yeth hound or the _Rongeur d'Os_, the bone-gnawer of her mother's childhood tales? Or was it something human and even more terrible, like Lawrence Eldritch intent on hanging her from the highest beam?

She was heedless of the twigs snapping beneath her bare feet, panting as she darted among the trees, only aware of the need to flee. She was swept so neatly off her feet that for a moment Isabella thought she had fallen from a precipice she had not seen, crying out as her feet flew from the ground, her body momentarily weightless.

But she recognized the arms wrapped around her figure, the chest to which she was clutched, like a precious doll desperately lost and found. "Edward!" she gasped, flinging her arms around his neck, her relief washing over her as she sagged against the hard planes of his body.

"What in God's name are you doing?!" His voice was a rough growl, his anger unmistakable…though she thought she detected relief as well. Isabella lifted her head, struggling to make out his gaze, his expression, in the darkness.

"I felt you—I felt you coming," she managed to breathe, shivering in his arms. She shook her head. "But I didn't realize it was you." Her fear had been overwhelming, alone in the dark and suddenly terrified that her flight from the inn had been for naught. "I was so afraid."

"You were afraid?!" Edward growled. He abruptly set her down though his hands remained on her upper arms; her mind flashed back to James Eldritch Junior, to his rough grasp as he'd refused to release her during the storm on the coast. But however angry Edward sounded, his touch was gentle, simply holding her steady. Squinting, she could just make out his pale visage in the darkness of the surrounding forest, black brows low over eyes that gleamed with frustration. "I returned to our rooms and found you gone!"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I heard someone—someone in the corridor." Her gaze was cast guiltily to the ground so she did not see his anger momentarily falter, concern now evident in his voice.

"Who? I detected no one awake when I returned to our rooms." She was relieved there was only confusion in his voice rather than disbelief, though she felt a stab of foolishness that her panic may have been unwarranted.

"I-I don't know," she stammered, raising her gaze. "But I think they heard me—I couldn't sleep and had risen. And they knocked on the outer door—"

"How did you get beyond them?" Edward asked, his confusion deepening.

Isabella could not bring herself to meet his gaze, her eyes again returning to her feet. "The window." The words were barely audible but it was evident he had heard her.

"What?!"

Isabella swallowed, her hands knotting into clammy fists. "I climbed…or, that is, I fell—out of the window."

All of Edward's fury returned, his voice nearly a shout as he cried, "I would suffer apoplexy if I were capable of it! What made you think—"

"You have done it so many times," Isabella weakly tried to explain.

"You are not me!"

"I am very aware of that," Isabella wryly replied. She was certain she had added to her bruises in falling to the ground.

"You think levity is warranted now?" Edward sharply asked.

Isabella's lips twisted, suddenly weary of feeling like a disobedient child. "I waited here as I knew it was impossible to return using the same means by which I'd left." She lifted her chin. "And I knew I'd defeat all of your efforts to remain above notice if I returned by the front door in this disarray," she gestured to her nightdress and bare feet. "I know it was impulsive—"

"Impulsive?" Edward interrupted, his hands in his hair. "It was dangerous! You could have been badly hurt!"

Isabella tilted her head, slowly coming to see this was the source of his lingering anger. "But I am quite well," she softly replied.

His groan made clear this was not a satisfactory response. "I have attempted in every way to keep you safe—"

"And you have," Isabella interrupted, daring to reach for his hand. "But I am human, Edward, I will occasionally suffer…" Her voice trailed away as she registered the uncharacteristic warmth of the hand in her own, nearly releasing his fingers as though burned by the utterly typical temperature of his skin.

But Edward's hand abruptly tightened around her own, dragging her close and pulling her into his arms in one smooth motion. Isabella instantly ceased breathing, eyes wide and lips parted, absorbing the firmness of his body in stunned silence, momentarily forgetting the warmth she'd felt upon touching his hand.

She could not make out his features in the darkness, but it did not matter for his kiss swiftly obscured everything, blotting out the stars and sky above, so forceful she was bent back within his arms. Her eyes sank shut, drowning in the sensation, incapable of protesting. Only the kiss swiftly shifted to sweetness, his lips a caress that set a fire smoldering in her belly. She found herself responding, lips moving against his own, caring nothing for propriety or reputation, her thoughts only of him. Her hands rose, seeking his shoulders beneath the wool of his jacket, passing over the soft folds of the cravat at his throat to the angle of his jaw, before threading through the silkiness of his hair. She sighed against his lips at the satisfaction of feeling him as close as he'd been the night he'd rescued her from Tiller's spring.

Edward's responding groan was proof that she affected him as deeply, his hands diving into her hair, swimming through the loose tresses. His lips abruptly tore from her own, an unwilling motion, as if he sought to end the embrace—but his head quickly fell again to kiss her throat, her jaw, mouth slick upon her skin. "I can bear it so much better now," he whispered, his mouth moving against her pulse.

Isabella's breath was a swift pant bursting past her lips, longing to be closer, lost in the sensation of his body, his mouth, the warmth at her core a burning torture.

"Edward…"

Impossibly, his embrace tightened, every line of her body pressed firmly against his own. Her eyes sank shut in anticipation of his lips returning to her own but his arms were loosening, her name a wistful sigh in her ears. "Oh, Isabella," he reluctantly straightened though his arms lingered around her waist. "Perhaps…perhaps you are an enchantress." She could hear the smile in his voice and was suddenly grateful for the cover of darkness, the flush flooding her cheeks hotter than any she had ever felt.

She attempted to jerk away from his embrace, heart crashing against her ribs, painfully aware of her scandalous response to his touch. What had she been thinking?

But before she could feel her mortification too deeply, her feet were suddenly swept from beneath her, her body cradled against his own. The protests upon her lips died away as he abruptly launched forward, speeding through the dark woods at a pace she knew would make her dizzy were she able to make out their surroundings. She could only cling to him, embarrassment like a fire in her veins, wishing she could understand his effect on her person.

They arrived at the inn within such a short span of time that Isabella could not help feeling foolish for having failed to find it in her confused stumbling through the dark. His voice was quiet and low against her ear, determination apparent in the words. "I'll investigate the corridors once we're inside." He paused only briefly before launching the short height to the eave; she marveled with fresh insight into the ease with which he navigated the mossy shingles, peering down in an attempt to see how he was able to cross such treacherously pitched surfaces—but she could see nothing given his swift pace and the lack of light.

"You'll be safe here—I promise," Edward's voice was firm as ducked through the bedchamber window and carefully set her upon the floorboards. The room was blacker than outside, what little light the stars provided only a dim glow beyond the panes of the window.

"I know it was foolish," Isabella began, realizing it very well may have been a guest returning from the privy, or a servant responding to a bell, roused from their bed by some urgent need.

"No, no," Edward shook his head, his hands reluctantly falling from her arms. "You have every right—and reason—to be cautious." His voice grew wry, "I only wish your escape had been by some other means."

He turned as if to go but Isabella raised a hand, begging, "Please—a light. I know I shan't sleep—not now." Her gaze fell to the floor as she saw the outline of his figure turn back at her plea. "I would rather wait for you," she quietly added.

"Very well. I'll find the tinderbox—but you should return to your bed. I'm certain you must be chilled."

Isabella did not speak to acknowledge he was correct as she followed him to the bedchamber door, simply lifting her hands to rub at her upper arms through the thin fabric of her nightdress. "I didn't think to take a cloak before I…I made my departure," she softly laughed.

Edward's only response was a scoffing noise, clearly unamused by the circumstances. She heard him fumble at the drawers of the writing table before returning with the tinderbox. She stepped aside, watching him cross to the nightstand; he moved through the darkness with ease, as if the lack of light was of no concern to him. "I should light the fire as well," he glanced over his shoulder as he struck the flint and steel over the tinder, the repeated clicking a rhythmic sound beneath his words.

"As you wish," Isabella quietly allowed.

She did not see the sparks catch upon the char cloth in the tinderbox, but Edward was soon lifting the candle, touching the wick to the smoldering material. The flame was a sudden beacon of brightness, flickering into life and illuminating his features as he turned with the chamberstick in hand.

But Isabella's gasp brought him to an abrupt halt, muscles rigid, his expression one of sudden, stricken fear.

"Edward…"

He quickly crossed to the fireplace, stooping and lowering the chamberstick to the floor boards to better light the kindling.

"Edward." Isabella said his name again, her tone insistent, for she knew she had not been mistaken. "What…why…" But she could not form the question, struggling to understand how his appearance could be so altered.

"I'll light the fire and be gone," Edward replied, his voice rough.

Isabella crossed to his side, hesitating only a moment before dropping a hand to his shoulder. Despite the chill in the night air, she suddenly had no use for the fire he was so intent upon lighting.

"Your face…" she murmured. She knew it was not simply the warm glow of the candle that had colored his pallor in tones so flushed and warm. She shook her head, realizing she had never thought to question his pale features, as white as snow, unblemished by the pink stain of blood. But she had also never seen him apply the powder he apparently carried with him, his clothes never speckled by the aftermath of using the cosmetic to whiten his skin. And his eyes…

But Edward was shrugging off her hand and rising to his full height in one sharp motion before swiftly crossing to the bedchamber door, his back to her. Isabella could not help her lips parting in shock for he had never rejected her touch, always seeking her out, ever desirous of her company.

"Edward," she whispered. "Please…" she begged, "you can tell me." For she was beginning to realize that the explanation had to lie at the heart of who he was, of the mystery of his abilities, of the secrecy she had suspected from the day he'd so abruptly fled her company in the Hammets' fallow field.

He turned but his gaze was carefully fixed upon the floor, upon the candle whose flame was distant enough that she could barely make out the difference that had been so apparent by its bright light. "I had hoped," he began, the words rough, a pale hand rising to rake through his hair. "I had hoped you would be asleep—that the affects would have faded by morning."

Isabella frowned, crossing the few feet that separated them and tentatively lifting a hand to his cheek. She briefly sensed he longed to respond to her touch, his head momentarily tilting towards her, his eyes sinking shut—before he abruptly jerked back, unwilling to let her fingers meet his skin. Her hand fell, her chest filled with a sudden hollow darkness.

"What do you mean?" she quietly asked, fighting back the hurt she knew must color the words.

Edward shook his head, appearing to swallow before he choked out, "I returned and could not hear you—the sound of your breathing—"

Isabella stilled, eyes growing wide as she began to understand this new depth to his abilities, that he could detect so much more than she realized.

His eyes briefly darted to her face, desperation and torment apparent in his gaze. "To lose you," he quickly looked away, the quiet words a plea. "I do not know what I would do."

But this brief glance was enough to confirm what she suspected she had seen when he first turned to face her, the candle in his hands. His black eyes, usually dark as jet, now danced with gold, the color softened by the amber flecks there. She did not know how such a thing could be possible.

She lifted her hand again, longing to understand, her voice a soft plea as she replied, "You know what I am." She shook her head, suddenly filled with equal desperation. "Why must you hide from me?"

But Edward lurched back, his shoulders nearly at his ears, tension evident in every inch of his frame.

"Edward," she gently began, fighting the hollow darkness that seemed to pulse and ripple through her core, struggling to fight the fear she felt at his response—at his certainty that knowing the truth would lose her to him forever. Though she knew Sheil would cringe at the admission, at confessing her partiality so completely, Isabella saw no use in denying what she felt. "It cannot affect my feelings for you." Her eyes sank shut as she imagined his arms around her, dragging her from the depths of the spring. He had saved her life. She opened her eyes. She knew he was honorable, she knew he was good.

But Edward was shaking his head, his hands in his hair. "You don't understand."

Isabella shook her head in turn. They had come too far. "Tell me. The effects of what?" she insisted, unwilling to give up, unwilling to let go.

The silence that followed was so long that she began to fear he would not confess, her shoulders sagging with a defeat greater than she could have anticipated feeling, tears pricking her eyes with sorrow. It was as if the hollow darkness in her chest was forming a pit she knew she could not escape if he failed to be truthful with her.

It was as if Edward sensed the same thing. For his gaze finally rose, black eyes swimming with amber fixing on her countenance.

His voice was hard. "The effects of feeding."

The words echoed in her head, refusing to form any meaning for several seconds—for she was certain she had never seen him eat, that he had never partaken of the meals placed before them by smiling servants, nor sampled from the packages he'd purchased on the road. He had been ever solicitous to her own hunger, while always denying his own.

…_of feeding…_

And his phrasing was strange, oddly animalistic. Humans did not feed—they ate, they consumed, they savored. Any number of other words would have been more appropriate. Wild animals hunted and fed—but not human beings. It was a subtle difference but one she knew had meaning.

…_the effects of feeding…_

Isabella inhaled sharply.

…_so ambitious he had sold his soul to the devil in exchange for immortality…_

All of the blood abruptly drained from Isabella's face though she was wildly shaking her head, denying the knowledge she had suddenly gained.

Her eyes were blind, the gloomy room of the inn lit by a single flickering candle fading away to be replaced by a sunny fallow field, colorful flowers wildly blooming all around. She saw the solitary rose, delicately reaching for the sky through a copse of thorny gorse. She felt the bandage on her hand tear away, and the dull flare of pain that accompanied the motion, followed by her own exasperation at her clumsiness. She saw herself turn, only to experience anew the flood of confusion at Edward's sudden disappearance.

But he hadn't disappeared. He had fled.

She could hear his voice, pained and low and desirous beneath the bows of the oak, the half-moon aglow in the sky above.

_You're bleeding…_

And then his kiss, damp and slick against her skin…against the cut.

In the shadowed bedchamber of the isolated inn, Isabella stumbled back in shock, the cavernous hollow in her chest threatening to swallow her whole. Her hands flailed for support and found the wall, knuckles white as she struggled for breath. Her gaze swam around the room, but Edward had not responded nor had he moved, his altered eyes blankly fixed upon her figure.

_The rumors claim a monster ripped you from the spring and bore you away—or a demon companion summoned by your witchery…_

She thought of his impossible youth, witnessing the revolution though he shouldn't have been older than a child at the time. She thought of his inhuman speed, racing across the countryside without tiring, without losing his breath. She thought of his strength, leaping onto rooftops, carrying her for miles. She thought of James Eldritch Junior, mysteriously killed though she had never seen Edward brandish a pistol or sword. She thought of yeth hounds, and diviner healers, and things that should not exist and yet do.

Her heart was pounding so loudly that it echoed in her ears, her palms damp as she forced her gaze to return Edward's fixed stare. It took all of her effort to speak, forcing the words to her lips.

"Do-do you make your home in a cemetery?" she stuttered, panting.

Edward's lips curled away from his teeth, his gaze scornful as he replied, "A peasant's myth."

Isabella's knuckles were white, straining where she braced herself against the wall, certain she would collapse to her knees if she did not have the support. "And if I were to place garlic over my door?"

His response was a dismissive growl, "An ineffectual superstition."

Her voice had fallen to desperate, guttural tones, like an animal that had run much too far, swallowing as she struggled for breath. "And if I were to say the Lord's prayer…?"

Edward tilted his head, amber-flecked eyes shining. "It would do nothing." His countenance was blank and uncaring, his gaze steady. "I could walk into a church with you now, and despite what I am, nothing would happen." He paused. "Nothing."

_Nothing._

The word echoed in her head as the candle abruptly snuffed out and the room was bathed in darkness.


	25. Fits & Raptures

_A few folks have commented on Mousehole (and other locations) being real. I always find it easier to base stories in real places rather than making somewhere up from scratch. If anything, it inspires details I might not have otherwise imagined on my own. For those of you who follow me on twitter, you've likely seen me nattering on about vintage maps lately. The British Library has an amazing feature of allowing you to see Horwood's map from 1794 transposed over Google's modern map._

_Thank you for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>The Men of that Second Sight do not discover strange Things when asked, but at Fits and Raptures, as if inspyred with some Genius at that Instant, which before did lurk in or about them.<em>

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies  
><em>_Robert Kirk_

**twenty five**

Her gaze was turned to the window, always the window. Whether framed by maroon damask or navy brocade, she was a fixture as unmoving as the earth beneath her feet, ever watchful. Though she no longer leapt and started at every approaching horse or coach, heart racing with anticipation, cheeks flushed with the promise of answered prayers, she had never ceased her watch. Every morning she could be found angling a chair before the panes, failing to rise until the road was too dark to see. Her hopes had grown terribly faded and worn with the years, yet she could not stop watching, waiting for him to return.

Gray threaded through the hair at her temples, silvery and unmistakable against the chestnut and burnished auburn of her tresses. Fine lines carved a path from her nose to the corners of her lips; it was apparent they were not due to frequent laughter, unaccompanied by a flare of lines at her eyes. No, they were formed from tension and fear, anxiety and hopelessness. These lines only eased in sleep, sleep that she increasingly required laudanum to find, unable to rest without the dulling affect of the tincture on her racing mind.

Though the parlor in which she sat was much finer than the cottage in which she'd been raised, the rugs bright, the furniture waxed by the diligent hands of servants, the curtains at the window richly heavy, her surroundings had not made her happy. They had never made her happy. Her gaze did not appear to see the tasteful furnishings, taking no notice of the comings and goings of the servants of the household, as if the comfort and ease had no meaning for her.

"Supper is growing cold."

The masculine voice was full of concern but she did not start or turn from her post, chocolate eyes fixed on the road.

"I'm sorry." Her voice carried the unmistakable weight of sadness.

"Make no apology to me, Miss Swan." The gentleman speaking entered the parlor more fully, his expression all concern. "There is no need to fret over the servants—they can clear the table as easily as they set it."

She simply nodded in response, her gaze unmoving from the clear panes of the parlor windows. Nor did she turn as he crossed the patterned carpets covering the polished floors—though the muffled sound of his footsteps was perfectly audible to her ears. For, in some ways, his appearance was a terrible reminder of what she awaited, a torturous mimicry of the traveler she longed to see riding up to the doorstep.

The gentleman's countenance was unnaturally pale, a chalky pallor more similar to snow or marble, any tint of blood completely absent from his cheeks and brow. Because the fashion for powder had long since passed, he was forced to tell tales of poor circulation and Nordic ancestors whenever acquaintances expressed concern about his health. His golden hair was brushed away from a high, unlined forehead, his amber eyes tinged with a sadness that nearly mirrored Isabella's deep, resigned melancholy. He spoke quietly, his gaze falling from the window panes to Isabella's graying hair. "I do wish you would eat, however."

"I know," she softly answered. But she made no move to leave the chair, unable to find her appetite, unable to bear leaving her post should that be the moment he chose to return.

When she had first joined Carlisle Cullen's household, the explanation given to the servants and his small circle of acquaintances was that his sister was newly arrived to the area, her husband abroad on the Continent with the sixty-second regiment. The regiment was known to be billeted in neighboring Wiltshire, and if anyone thought to question Carlisle announcing he had a sibling when he had never before mentioned any living family, those questions were not voiced to him directly. It was then broadly shared that his sister's husband had died in battle only weeks after her arrival; it was only natural then that her stay with Carlisle become permanent. As the years passed and they had been forced to leave Oxford and then York, the story had shifted, adapting to the reality that she was aging while Carlisle was not. She was still a widow, if only to explain her unending grief, but she became his aunt, no longer young enough to be convincing as his sister.

"Your care for me is always so solicitous," she quietly added, as if to apologize for the burden of her company. Carlisle had always taken his charge of her seriously, ensuring her health and safety. If there was ever a rumor of visitors from Cornwall, he had been sure to alert her—though there was little of her behavior to alter as she never went out socially. Finding the willpower to visit the market or venture to a nearby park was often more than she could manage. She had never minded their frequent moves for this reason—from Oxford, to York in the north, and now finally to Brighton—for she never grew close to anyone where they resided.

"It will always be," Carlisle assured her. After a few more moments of silence, he departed on quiet feet, leaving her to her endless watch.

The curtains of the fine parlor abruptly swung shut, bathing the room in impenetrable blackness. Isabella immediately rose, desperately groping for the fabric, fighting to part the heavy drapes, panicking with the need to return her gaze to the road. For she never knew when he might return, when he might come back to her, black eyes playful, his half-grin ever charming.

"Edward!" she cried, thrashing amongst the folds of fabric, the heavy swaths of damask like a stifling shroud. "Edward! Please!" Tears streamed down her cheeks, her throat swollen with desperation. It was all she had left to live for, the waiting.

"I'm here, Isabella." His hands were at her jaw, brushing away the tears, soothing and strong. "I'm here."

"Edward, oh, Edward!" she cried, flinging her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck. Even as she held him, she could not believe it to be true, her body shaking as though buffeted by a baleful wind, clinging to him with the certainty that it was a dream. "How could you go? How could you leave me?"

"I'm here, Isabella," his hands were stroking her back, her hair, his voice a soothing murmur against her ear. "I'm here…"

But it was not enough. Though she was disoriented by the realization that she was lying upon a hard narrow bed, her body garbed in a loose nightdress rather than the black bombazine widow's weeds she had been wearing only moments before, she could feel nothing but panic at the thought that she would never see Edward again.

"You must promise me," she insisted as she pulled away from his embrace, struggling to find his countenance in the darkness. "I beg you—I cannot bear it." She shook her head, disoriented and confused but certain she must secure his promise. "You must not leave me."

"I am here," he repeated the words, but there was a distant solemnity to his voice. "I have not left."

Her skin grew cold as she slowly realized these words were not the promises she sought. She began to tremble with new desperation, clammy sweat forming at the small of her back with sheer panic. Desperate, she clung to him, her hands scrabbling at his shoulders, as if she could physically keep him with her. "You must promise. Promise, Edward, I beg you!" She shook her head, her voice growing wild with agitation. "Promise you won't leave me!"

Her shaking grew only more violent as he did not speak, blind with fresh tears as she clung to him, sobs choking from her throat. "Edward…please…"

The only sound for some time was her ragged breathing and whimpering sobs, certain she could not bear it if they were parted. When he finally spoke, there was no mistaking the torment in his voice. "I promise. I won't leave."

Her relief was like the passing of a storm, her arms loosening their bind around his shoulders, her tears and sobs slowly subsiding to small, breathless gasps. "Edward, oh, Edward…" And it was only then that she began to realize the gloomy room was not a Brighton parlor inexplicably blackened by heavy drapes, or some strange, suspended hell—but that she was in the upper room of a country inn bordering the Dartmoor forests, the stars dimly filtering through the single bedchamber window.

"But it was not a dream," her whisper was insistent, filled with the certainty that what she had seen, what she had experienced, had been no hazy fabrication of her imagination. She had witnessed some vision of the future to be, crisply detailed, horrifyingly true. "I was not dreaming," she insisted again, eyes sinking shut as her arms tightened around Edward's frame. She still could not quite believe that he was with her, that he was real.

"Isabella," his voice was wondering and filled with worry. "I am confounded—what happened to you?"

She shook her head, hiding her face against the already damp lapels of his coat as if she could blot back the fresh tears blinding her eyes. "You left me," she whispered, the words forlorn. "You were gone."

When he did not respond, did not refute that such a thing was possible—though he had spent the past few days attempting to convince her that his interest in her was genuine, that he wished to make her his wife and bind her to him forever—it was a damning confirmation that what she had seen had somehow been his intent. Tendrils of fresh panic threaded through her veins at the thought, her fingers digging into the fabric of his coat, eyes wide with fear. She knew with utter certainty that she had not dreamed—she had seen the result of his decision.

"Edward," she spoke desperately, lifting her head and trying to find his gaze in the dark. "What you are—it does not matter." She thought of Marie's words, of her own question to him only the day before. _What objection can I hold?_ "It changes nothing." She would have scratched the words into her flesh to convince him.

"Isabella," her name was a whispered word, as if he had not heard her speak. "Where did you go?"

She briefly thought to try to explain, to describe the parlor, the gravel drive before the window, the wrinkles and veins in her aged hands—but she knew it would sound too wild to be true.

"You fainted," he softly continued. "Or…I thought you fainted." He shook his head. "Which would be an all too-apt response to the truth of what I am—and perhaps the first time you have reacted to me as you should."

But Isabella shook her head, her hands shifting from his shoulders, touching his cheeks, his hair, still marveling that he was there with her—that it had not been decades since she had last seen him. "Please don't say such things," her voice shook, the words teary but adamant. "You have never hurt me. You have only protected me." And the only people he had harmed were in defense of her. "What you are—it matters not."

But she could see him shaking his head in the darkness, could feel him withdrawing from her even now, moving as if to leave the bed upon which she reclined. She was filled with fresh anxiety that he would not keep his promise, that he had only spoken to allay her panic, to quiet her sobbing—that he had not meant the words he had spoken. Desperation coursed through her limbs, her breath rendered little more than agitated pants as she sought some way to convince him.

The words burst forth without thought, unable to think how else to make him see. "If you leave me," she began, her voice insistent, "I will wait for you. I will wait for you every day, with a chair in the parlor that always faces the window. I will look for you, even when I'm grown gray."

He had stilled, hesitating in his withdrawal from the bed, frozen by her words. She could sense his gaze upon her face, as if mesmerized by what she was saying.

"How can you know that?" he finally whispered. "How can you be so certain?"

Her lips parted, a frown of frustration forming on her brow. She knew it to be true. It was written in her bones. When she finally spoke, she returned his question with one of her own. "Who is Carlisle?"

Edward leapt to his feet so abruptly that she did not see or hear him move, her arms briefly suspended in the darkness before she let them fall to her sides. She would have risen from the bed as well but she could hear the tread of his feet upon the floorboards; it reassured her momentarily that he was still with her, still in the room, restlessly pacing. She repeated the question, her heart pounding with the certainty she felt. "Who is Carlisle?"

Several seconds passed but Edward finally responded from the darkness, the words rough. "I knew him years ago, when I first came to England. My acquaintance," he clarified, "living in Oxford."

Isabella nodded her head, her voice dropping to a tortured whisper. "We will live in York after Oxford—and then in Brighton after York."

Edward's response was quietly solemn. "Like me, he doesn't change."

"No," Isabella replied in agreement, a chill washing over her skin as the memory of this terrible future crystallized in her mind. "First we will say that I am his sister—but then I will be his aunt, widowed years ago—for he remains the same as I change and grow old."

Edward was suddenly next to her, his figure reassuringly close, his hands on either side of her face. The light dimly glowing through the window had brightened, the clouds parting to allow the moon to brightly shine—and allowing her to see the intensity of his gaze, black eyes flecked with impossible gold. "What I am—"

"I cannot judge you, Edward," she interjected softly, her voice certain. "All I know of you is honorable, is good—"

He groaned, as if tormented by her words. "I told you," he began, his voice desperate, "your affect upon me—you drive every feckless, irresponsible impulse from me like some angel burdened with saving me."

"You saved my life," she quietly responded, lifting her hands to his face in turn, stroking the smooth planes of his cheeks. "You have never taken advantage of me, despite how many instances in which you have found me vulnerable, alone."

But he was shaking his head, his eyes sinking shut, his lips twisting. "I have committed such wrongs," he confessed. "I have taken lives—not just that of the man who would have hurt you." He inhaled. "I do not live as others of my kind live," he shook his head again. "But I am no saint."

"Edward," she quietly replied, stroking his hair, his jaw, seeking to sooth the torment from his expression. "We are both creatures apart." It was her turn to inhale, struggling for the strength to confess the truth she had not been willing to admit even to herself. "The storm—I now fear…" She swallowed, thinking back to that day. She had never suspected all that she could do, but given the certainty of the vision she had just experienced, it no longer seemed outside the realm of possibility. "The storm that killed those two men—I fear I caused it." She shook her head. "How can I judge you?"

"It is not the same," he whispered. His eyes opened but he did not meet her gaze, his expression so lost that she longed to pull him close, to hold him and sooth him, desperate to comfort him. "It was an accident—you had no knowledge of your abilities."

Isabella was shaking her head but he did not allow her to interrupt, speaking quickly, the words a torrent. "I am a predator. I know very well what I am. It is in my nature to kill, to feed. And though I may no longer take the lives of my fellow man, it does not change what I am."

"Do you have a choice about how you live?" Isabella rejoined. "Could you eat as I do if you so chose?"

Edward did not speak but finally shook his head once. "And if you abstained," she asked. "Would you not eventually starve?"

His lips twisted again, his eyes squeezing shut. "I do not think it possible—" he appeared to choke on the words, blindly shaking his head, too tortured to continue. "I cannot, Isabella. With every admission to you, I fear losing you. Your reaction just now—"

Isabella could no longer resist her impulses, uncaring of how bold she might appear, pulling his unresisting figure close to her upon the bed. "It was shock, Edward. It was shock…" She shook her head gently. "Shock, surprise…some fear," she confessed. "But it was momentary, I promise." She inhaled, thinking back to what she knew was only minutes before—but it felt an eternity, as if an entire lifetime had passed during the moments in which she'd been lost to this world, and trapped in another.

"But you should fear me, Isabella," his voice was a murmur against her shoulder, low and intent. "And you should be angry with me." His arms tightened where they had wound around her waist, as if desperate to hold her close though he knew she should flee. "I deceived you, I kept the truth from you." He shook his head. "Though I had no idea of what I was about when I first met you, I should have parted ways from you long before tonight."

"And I would be dead," she whispered. "Dead in that spring as surely as I am alive with you here now." She stroked his hair. "And I would not call your failure to be explicit with me deceit. I knew you were different the day I met you—I simply had no notion to what extent." Her chuckle was wry, "And you knew I was different, too." She thought of his teasing question about Raginnis' bull, and her flustered response, darting away as quickly as her feet could carry her.

But he would not agree, lifting his head to meet her gaze, his brows low over his eyes. "It was unforgivable, hoping that you might come to care for me—that your care for me might help you to overlook what I am. It is unforgivable."

"I do not overlook what you are," Isabella softly disagreed. "I have accepted it."

The expression that passed over Edward's features was absolutely haunting, sweet relief mixing with something akin to tortured resignation.

"I knew you were different," she repeated the words softly. "And you allowed me to see." She paused, thinking back. "It alarmed me, when you disappeared so suddenly in the meadow that day." Her eyes sank shut, marveling at her reaction even then. "But my alarm was mostly because I did not understand how you could seem so taken one moment and then utterly disregard me the next."

Edward frowned at this, brows low over his eyes. "I did not disregard you," he nearly growled. "I didn't want to hurt you."

She stroked the hair at his nape, the strands soft against her fingers. "I know that now." She thought of the bandage, the sharp sensation of the linen tearing away from her skin—and turning to find Edward gone. She longed to deny that he would have dared harm her, but she did not think he would listen, that he would find no solace in those words.

"When you first left Mousehole, had I not known that you intended to return, I don't know what I would have done. Even then…" She hesitated only a moment but felt there was no sense in holding back—not when she had seen what losing him could mean. "Even then, I felt such desolation at your absence." She had begun to hope, against her best judgment. "And when you returned, and I tried to rebuff you, you showed me what you were." Her lips twisted as she thought back to that first demonstration of his speed—and how she could only be distracted by his nearness rather than harbor any concern for how such an act was not possible. "And so much else. You never allow servants around, you have spoken of no family. Yet you allow me so close, you allow me to witness how you are different, your strength, your speed. And I did not ask. Because long ago, I decided it did not matter."

He protested, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, unable to meet her gaze, "The fear in your eyes just now, the disgust with me, with what I am—"

"Shock, Edward, I promise," she insisted. "I had suspected gambling debts, illegitimacy, a duel—" She felt him lift his head again but could not meet his gaze, a faint flush stealing up her cheeks as she sensed his incredulous expression. "Idiocy, I know now. If all illegitimate children were empowered with the ability to leap off roof tops, I imagine it would be more widely known by now."

Edward's responding chuckle was reassuring, giving her the hope that he had begun to accept that her sentiments were true.

"I was bleeding in your arms," she softly added. "And you did not hurt me."

Edward was immediately filled with tension again, his muscles rigid, his arms like a vise around her waist. "How can you forgive me?" he whispered.

"Edward," she said his name firmly. "You did not hurt me." She shifted beneath him, her own remembrance of that moment under the shadowed oak equally filled with mortification—but for very different reasons. She recalled his lips on her temple, trailing a silken path down her throat as a wild flame curled in her belly.

Edward lifted his head, as if sensing her agitation, his gaze curious as he examined her face. Though the room was dark, he could detect the faintest hint of pink in her cheeks, heat seeming to rise from her skin as though she were covered by a heavy counterpane—though they had been returned from the cool outdoors for only a short time. Her gaze was carefully trained upon the ceiling, unwilling or unable to meet his curious stare. "You should fear me," he murmured, "but you do not fear me."

Isabella could not shift her gaze from the ceiling but she did not hesitate in answering, softly whispering, "No." She shook her head. "I feel no fear with you."

Edward was still, listening to the sound of her breath, the whisper of the tree branches beyond the window, the quiet of the sleeping inn. Almost imperceptibly, his hands began to shift, inching from her waist to the gentle swell of her hips, dusting over the thin fabric of her nightdress. His gaze remained fixed on her face, as if watching for a shift in her countenance, as if testing her.

Isabella's gaze had swung from the ceiling at the first intimate motion of his hands, breath caught in her throat. But there was no fear in her countenance, only surprise, her eyes wide and lips parted as she absorbed the foreign sensation of his hands upon her body. The flush in her cheeks grew steadily hotter and brighter as his hands shifted lower, lower, down to her knees before catching at the hem of her gown and settling on the bare skin of her legs. "Edward," she whispered. There was no fear in her voice, only fascination, anticipation.

"Isabella," he responded softly, her name a caress, his gaze softening as he saw her expression fail to shift, to change. Even after all these days and hours in close quarters, it still seemed a miracle to him, that she felt no fear. Though it had not been his intention to venture further than where his hands rested, impudent as he knew it to be, he could not resist the sensation of her skin, silken and impossibly warm. As if of their own will, his hands drifted over her knees, pressing into the softness of her bare thighs, luxuriating in the feeling of her.

"Please," she whispered, though she knew not what for. To her relief, his gaze tore from her own, but only so he could lower his head, his lips gentle against her throat. Her breath began to come in quick pants, her hands frozen upon his shoulders, eyes wide and blind.

Though Edward could feel her heart racing against his chest, her pulse fluttering against his lips, she did not tremble or flinch away from him. No, her palms suddenly pressed against his back, wanting him closer, her quickening breath stirring his hair.

"Oh, Isabella." He murmured her name as he reluctantly drew away, struggling to treat her as her background and upbringing deserved. Though he longed to linger against the smooth softness of her thighs, he drew her skirt down her legs between them, restraining a smile at the whimper of disappointment that escaped her lips.

For some time he simply held her close, the only sound her ragged breathing, the birds in the trees beyond the window all slumbering, the inn quiet and still. He listened as if it were an exquisite concert, focusing upon the slowing pulse of her heart, the easing of her breath as she gradually grew calm. He could not have spoken to confess how captivated he was by something so simple, the sound of her heart and breath, reassured so long as he knew she was in this world.

"It's true," he whispered against her skin, confessing the decision he had impulsively made as he had seen her expression transform, filled with the horrifying knowledge of what he was before she had abruptly lost all color and slumped to the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory. "I determined to leave you—to pass as quickly through London as possible, and to trust you to Carlisle's care." Edward knew she would be safe with him, the honorable pastor's son—and that she need never see him again.

Edward lifted his head as the sound of her breathing abruptly grew distressed again, but this time, it was not excitement or anticipation causing her to struggle for air. This time, he could see her pale face was filled with profound fear. He lifted a hand, his own gaze full of wonder as he saw it was only these words that could restore the fear to her eyes, gently stroking her cheek, hoping to reassure her. "But oh, my dear Isabella," His voice nearly broke upon her name, for her eyes sank shut at his touch, her tousled head tilting into his hand, impossibly drawn to him.

"How could I ever bear to part with you?"


	26. Dear Life

_Thank you so much for reading & reviewing, and apologies for the apparent anxiety I caused with the opening of the last chapter. I often forget the response a reader might have since I know what is happening next!_

* * *

><p><em>You cannot, my dear life, be so happy in me, as I am in you. O how heartily I despise all my former pursuits, and headstrong appetites! What joys, what true joys, flow from virtuous love! joys which the narrow soul of the libertine cannot take in, nor his thoughts conceive! And which I myself, whilst a libertine, had not the least notion of!<em>

_Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded  
><em>_Samuel Richardson_

**twenty-six**

It was as if the world had transformed while she slept, becoming a bright place of hope and joy rather than the shadowed, fear-filled domain she had come to know over the past sennight, starting at every sound, wary of showing her face. The sun shone golden and warm beyond the window, birds chirping and singing in the trees that surrounded the little inn, seemingly filled with the same elation and relief as she.

For Isabella could not deny the giddiness she felt when she rose from the pillows, a broad smile curving over her lips, eyes shining as she swung her feet to the floor. She could not even feel perturbed that she had not woken in Edward's arms, content to know she had fallen asleep there, safe and comforted by the knowledge that he would not leave her—that he could not leave her.

That knowledge alone might have been the sole source of her joy but as she slowly rose and crossed to the window, she realized it was so much more than that. She lifted a hand to the nearly sheer linen curtain, pulling the fabric aside to gaze upon the sun-filled forest beyond the window. She knew the truth now. There was no longer any uncertainty about Edward's true nature—or her own. She could hear Edward's voice, a murmur in the darkness of the room last night, "I suppose your ability to know when someone is coming is a form of mild premonition. It should not be so surprising that this ability should be more apparent…" His voice had trailed away, growing speculative as he continued, "when under great stress? When there are great things at stake?"

It was then that she had shared the memory of her mother's inexplicable insight into her father's passing, the tea tray crashing to the floor, the sound of Renée's desperate, inconsolable sobs. They had both fallen silent after this, wordlessly recognizing that the bond between them must be as powerful. For hadn't Isabella demonstrated the same desperate torment after glimpsing a future in which he'd played no part? His lips had brushed her hair, a gentle kiss, a silent promise that such a future would never come to pass.

Isabella let the curtain fall as she heard the door behind her creak open, her lips curling with a happy smile as she saw Edward carrying a tray laden with food. "You ate nothing last night," he began in a firm voice as he eased the door shut behind him with one foot. "You must be hungry."

But he had no opportunity to further lecture her for her lack of appetite. For she had rushed across the room and flung her arms around his neck—though he was still attempting to set the tray down upon the night stand. "Isabella!" Her name was a laughing admonition on his lips, but his arms soon circled her waist, unable to resist embracing her in return.

"You're here," she exhaled.

"As I will always be," he promised.

Her smile was brilliant as she reluctantly drew away, her heart full to bursting at the sight of his handsome features looking upon her with the same sweet affection. "But come," he turned his gaze to the steaming food upon the tray. "You must eat."

"Very well." As she settled on the rumpled mattress and began picking at the slices of pork and fresh bread, he crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the footboard of the narrow bed.

"It appears one of the guests imbibed too much ale last night," Edward blithely examined his nails. "That was the knocking you heard on the door—he was unable to recall which room was his."

"Oh," Isabella dumbly replied, lips slightly agape as she momentarily forgot she was chewing upon a slice of pork belly. Then, swallowing, she added, "I should have realized."

Edward shook his head, a half-smile curling over his lips. "How so? You had no way of knowing. The innkeeper, however, was quite irate." His black eyes sparkled; had she not known the irises had been threaded with gold the night before, she would not have noticed the faint flecks still swimming there. "He was making his excuses to several of the guests who were disturbed from their sleep last night." Edward paused. "He was all solicitousness but his thoughts were quite violent."

It took a moment for Isabella to react, but her brows slowly lowered with confusion as she absorbed his words. "His thoughts?"

But even as she spoke, she knew there was no mistaking his meaning. Her eyes widened as she abruptly shot up from the bed, her hands on her cheeks as her face rapidly reddened with embarrassment. "You're able to discern other's thoughts?!" she cried, all mortification as she recalled how frequently she'd marveled at his appearance, her gaze casting about the room as though seeking some place to hide.

But Edward was crossing to her side, his hands rising to gently grasp her wrists, his gaze consoling but amused as he answered, "Yes, but not yours."

"I—what?" Isabella could not help her confusion. She had little trouble accepting that Edward's skills and abilities could include a multitude of fantastic things she might have never considered—had he not admitted only the prior evening that he could hear the sound of her breathing? But to accept something so impossible only to immediately learn that she was the exception felt far more difficult to believe. "But…how?"

"There is much about you that is magical," Edward replied simply as he drew her hands to his lips and gently kissed her fingers. "Why should this not be another aspect of your nature that should defy reason?"

Isabella could not help her curiosity now that she was certain he'd had no sense of her thoughts over the course of their acquaintance. "Is it like…like music being played in another room? Or a conversation—with only one speaker?"

Edward shrugged, tilting his head, "A bit of both, perhaps. Thoughts are often fragmented—or images rather than words."

Isabella's lips parted, fascinated by the idea. "What was the innkeeper thinking last night?"

"He was wishing for his bed more than anything. He was glad we did not require much in the way of services."

"And this is what you meant," Isabella asked, eyes narrowing as she thought back to their conversation over supper in St. Austell, "when you said you had skills and abilities that allowed you advantages."

Edward nodded his head once. "Yes. It's far easier to negotiate with a merchant attempting to import a ship filled with goods fresh from India if you know what he paid. Bluffing at cards is impossible if I know every players' hand—" At her wide eyes, he shamefully lowered his gaze, "I know, little better than cheating. Not very gentlemanly of me but it's been some time since I resorted to such low amusements."

Isabella bit her lip, turning her hands in his loose grip to return his grasp. The coolness with which she was familiar had returned to his skin, no longer mysterious now that she understood what he was. As she felt his fingers flex within her own, muscles and tendons shifting beneath her touch, it was impossible to reconcile the truth with the man standing before her. How could he be something so vile, an abomination returned from the grave, when his expression was shifting, like any living creature, from contrition to curiosity, black eyes watchful.

"What are you thinking?"

Isabella shook her head, her own gaze falling to the floor boards. "It seems impossible—I have no doubt as to the truth—" She thought of his strength and speed, his cool, pale skin and eyes black as jet. "Yet you are no monster."

His hands briefly tightened around her fingers before releasing her entirely. "I no longer feel any confidence as to what is impossible," he softly replied. "Just as you are no crone casting spells from a tumble down hut in the deepest woods—"

"You are no ghoul risen from the ground," she softly interrupted, finishing his sentence.

Edward shook his head. "I never got so far as the grave." He paused and she could see he was wrestling with how much to confess, his hands curling into fists as his lips thinned. Finally, he added, "I was very ill when I was changed—very near death." He shook his head again before his eyes lifted, warily watching for her reaction. "My understanding is once death has come, it is too late."

"I see," Isabella slowly replied. She turned back to the tray she'd abandoned in the surprise of learning about Edward's ability to hear others' thoughts, reaching for a piece of bread with a contemplative expression. "When did all of this come to pass?" she asked as she took a bite.

"In the final years of the reign of _le Roi Soleil_," he quietly answered.

As Isabella realized her lips were slightly agape again, she quickly swallowed and decided she should put off breakfast until their conversation was concluded. "The Sun King," she repeated him though she knew she had not misheard him.

Edward nodded once. Isabella's gaze briefly fell to the floorboards, trying to reconcile the lively young man before her with the knowledge that he had been on this earth more than a century before. But his voice broke into her thoughts, offering more detail.

"There had been a terrible famine a few years before I fell ill. Paris was almost celebratory with the relief of several years of good crops, the price of bread and other staples falling to a point that no one need starve but for the infirm and dissolute." His gaze grew distant. "We were attending a performance of Sainte-Colombe's latest piece—chamber music," he added with a smile. The smile swiftly faded. "I'm certain I fell ill there."

Though his memories from before seemed a hazy dream in comparison to the crisp detail of all he'd experienced since he was changed, he could still recall the flushed woman who had fallen into his arms in a fit of breathless laughter. He'd thought her drunk, intoxicated on too much wine, her breasts nearly spilling from the low bodice of her rich gown as she apologized and struggled back to her seat. It was only later that he'd recalled the feverish warmth of her skin, eyes too bright, her laughter tinged with near-delirium.

"I did not think the folklore had reached as far as England," Edward did not wish to divulge any further detail, and Isabella allowed him to change the subject.

"I only know what I've read in _Le Dictionnaire Philosophique_," she shook her head, her gaze falling to her hands. "As you know, Sheil is not one to suffer foolish superstitions in silence…" The words trailed away as she realized he was a living contradiction to Sheil's stubborn refusal to believe in the myths that most of the drovers and fishermen of the parish held as certain truth.

As if sensing her confusion, Edward asked, "But beyond Voltaire's satirical take on the subject, you had no knowledge of the matter."

Isabella shook her head again, "There are always tales of ghouls born of cemeteries and catacombs," she swallowed, struggling to meet his gaze. "Was the hysteria Voltaire wrote of—did it affect you?"

Edward shook his head, his smile wry. "As you said yourself, I hardly look the part of a monster. It is in other ways," he admitted, his voice softening, his smile fading, "that those around me begin to suspect something is amiss."

Isabella's voice was a whisper, recalling the horrifying vision she'd suffered the prior night. "You do not age."

Edward shook his head. "And I do not fall ill." He nodded to the food, encouraging her to eat. "Though this has been less of a concern in recent years, it is definitely alarming when everyone around you is succumbing to delirium and fits, and you continue to walk the streets unscathed."

Isabella obediently turned her attention to her cooling breakfast, but turned back to him as she ate, brow furrowed with curiosity. "I do not recall Voltaire mentioning either of those points," Isabella mused after she swallowed the bite she had taken. A small smile curled over her lips, "Though I suppose it's hardly surprising there should be a good deal of error and supposition in an essay where the goal is to skewer the clergy."

"Your mother was quite adventurous to have kept such a text," Edward replied.

"I suppose," Isabella shrugged. "I mostly recall her laughing over it…but I don't think she ever favored…" She hesitated briefly before saying the words aloud, "the chapter on vampires."

Edward laughed, a rich sound. "Did you think I might throw myself upon you once you said the word?" Isabella could not help her blush, a protest upon her lips.

"It still seems so ludicrous!" Her eyes raked his figure, finding it impossible to believe by sight alone that Edward bore any resemblance to the rosy, blotted corpses Voltaire had described, too ridiculous to be believed. "And of course I have no fear of you," she added archly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Do not tempt me, Isabella," Edward's tone was darkly amused but she simply lifted her chin, regarding him with shining eyes.

"Tempted to…?" she replied saucily. She had tormented Sheil in a similar fashion whenever her nursemaid attempted to threaten vague consequences that never came to fruition.

But she found herself squealing as the world was abruptly spun in a dizzying circle, her figure caught in the protective vise of Edward's arms as the floor swung over her head, the ceiling beneath her feet—before she was breathlessly set to rights again, sagging against Edward's unyielding chest.

"Mr. Maçon!" she cried, struggling to steady her gaze. The world was still spinning though she had ceased moving.

"I believe we have already discussed your predilection for addressing me in such a formal manner," Edward replied, his voice inordinately disappointed.

Isabella could not help her breathless laughter at his starchy tone, then found herself silenced by his following words.

"We are promised to one another, are we not?" Her amusement died at the note of uncertainty in his voice—that he could suffer any doubt after everything that had come to pass.

Her eyes were wide and dark as she gazed upon his pale visage, her lips parting as she recalled the despair she had felt at contemplating a future without him. "You are my life now," she quietly confessed.

The joy that flickered across his features before taking hold was like the sun breaking across the horizon, his black eyes growing impossibly bright before a smile spread across his lips. When his mouth fell to her own, she could do nothing more than respond with the same strength of feeling, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her figure to his own.

The kiss transitioned from one of intensity to one of passion, his head tilting as his hands caressed her jaw and throat. Her lips opened beneath the motion, her gasp of breath nearly inaudible as his tongue darted out, savoring the taste of her. Though she trembled at her own inexperience, she strived to return his passion with her own, tentatively touching the velvet of his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.

A sound emerged from Edward's throat that was guttural and pained, the pressure of his fingers against her skin almost painful before his hands shifted lower, wrapping around her waist and pulling her close. "Edward," she murmured against his lips at the sensation of his unyielding frame, melting against him.

His kiss was relentless, his lips and tongue exploring her own, tasting her, insatiable. She was breathless when he lifted his head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dazed. "Isabella," Edward's lips drifted to her throat, to the soft flesh where her neck and shoulder met, inhaling the honey scent of her. "You are a distraction…a tempting, delicious distraction."

She wobbled when his arms finally loosened, watching with a heavy-lidded gaze as he stepped back, one hand at her waist to ensure she didn't stumble and fall. "As much as I long to remain here with you, we must continue our journey."

Slowly, she began to absorb his words, realizing again how much she forgot herself with him. She licked her lips as her gaze fell to the floor—before her gaze darted up to his tormented face at the sound of his low groan. "Isabella…"

"I—" She did not know what she had done wrong, but had no time to consider the matter for he crossed the brief space between them in one stride, his lips returning to her own for one sweet, lingering kiss—before he broke away.

"I must see to our travel arrangements," Edward began with a tone of determination, knowing it was not possible to extend this brief idle. "—hiring another carriage, or whatever I can find at an inn so remote."

Isabella nodded numbly, struggling to recall herself. "Of course."

Edward smiled, his hand tightening around her own. "And you must finish your breakfast and ready yourself should I find a willing coachman sooner rather than later. I will return once everything is arranged."

She nodded again, watching as he bowed before quietly withdrawing from their rooms. But even after her stomach growled, she could not bring herself to focus upon the now cold breakfast tray.

Edward's concerns regarding the remoteness of the inn proved to be valid as he found no private coaches or post-chaises were expected that day, and that the likelihood of such an equipage arriving unannounced was quite low. "Most drivers go directly to Okehampton or pass through Dartmoor to Exeter," the innkeeper apologetically explained.

It was for this reason that Edward decided to risk journeying on a stage coach bound for Bristol. "We'll change at Exeter," he explained as Isabella tightened the ribbons of her bonnet. "All of the passengers should hail from the immediate neighborhood—it is impossible they should be acquainted with you or the Eldritches."

"And if they suspect," Isabella replied, struggling to be brave, "you shall be the first to know."

Edward nodded grimly in response before wrapping her small gloved hand in his own, and setting forth from the room.

The yard before the inn was not nearly as busy as many of the other establishments at which they had stopped, a scattering of hens scratching at the gaps between cobblestones nearly subsumed by green grass and moss, a few hostlers waiting in readiness for the carriage that was swaying down the road in their direction. Isabella could just see the figures of passengers perched atop the vehicle, coats and cloaks flapping in the wind, hands held to their heads to keep their hats from flying away. As the horses drew closer, she could see how the animals strained at the bit, foaming at the mouth and snorting for air, their sides lathered, eyes wild as the coachman cracked his whip.

The hostlers leapt into motion before the carriage had fully ceased rocking forward, moving to loosen harnesses and buckles as the horses whinnied and tossed their heads. A manservant Isabella recognized from the prior evening stepped forward to open the carriage door and assist the ladies down from the cab, while the rough men who had been perched atop the vehicle swung down and began stamping their feet, their features reddened and chapped beneath their hats. The innkeeper was shouting greetings and apologies all at once. "Good day! I do apologize we can't offer a full meal but we do have mutton pasties if you wish for a bite before you're on your way!"

The travelers gathered around the innkeeper and a maid that had accompanied him from the kitchen with a basket full of pasties and small, gnarled apples. He collected the coins as she dispensed the food.

Before long, Edward and Isabella were being motioned to join the few passengers who had remained in the cab rather than step outside to stretch their legs or purchase the food being offered. Isabella gathered her skirts in one hand as she stepped up into the vehicle, her gaze cautious as she settled onto the bench seat opposite an elderly man and a young lady who may have been his daughter or granddaughter, their expressions benign as they nodded in greeting. The other passengers soon piled into the cab; it was a press of bodies as the cab had been nearly full when Edward purchased their passage. Isabella was flush against Edward, who was uncomfortably wedged into the corner as two ladies joined them upon the bench seat, another perching next to the elderly gentleman opposite. The women were all garbed in simple traveling gowns, the fabric bunching around their legs as they squeezed onto the seat.

"How do you do?" they called in friendly greeting as the sound of boots scuffling overhead indicated the men who could not afford passage within the cab were climbing back atop the carriage. There were rough shouts as the carriage swayed with their movements, and Isabella found herself peering up wordlessly at the unadorned ceiling while Edward politely replied in kind.

"Oh, you are a foreigner?" the elderly gentleman asked upon hearing Edward's accent. Isabella tried to repress her alarm, knowing it would be notable should anyone follow in their wake asking questions. But Edward's calm response allayed her fears, his voice quietly solemn as he explained that he hailed from Bruges in the Low Countries—but had emigrated after the annexation by the French.

"Ah, that bloody Bonaparte!" the elderly man huffed, which was immediately followed by a gasp from his daughter.

"Papa!"

"Ah, forgive an old man his poor manners," the elderly man apologized to the cab at large. The woman sitting next to Isabella simply shook with silent laughter before the conversation turned to the general topic of the repugnance of the French, the common concern for the British soldiers engaged in varying efforts on the Continent, and the news that Bonaparte had been proclaimed Emperor of the French a short time ago.

"Bah!" the elderly man huffed again, before Isabella saw his daughter's elbow dig into his ribs.

She tried to conceal her discomfort with the topic of conversation, occasionally stealing a glance in Edward's direction to discern whether he demonstrated any discomposure with topics so insulting to his background and heritage. But his pale features betrayed no agitation, black eyes calm as he listened to the conversation around them, occasionally nodding in apparent agreement. It was for this reason, despite the friendliness of the group in the cab, that she was grateful when they arrived in Exeter and were able to find a post-chaise for hire.

They were not obliged to wait long as their baggage was hauled from one carriage to another, but Isabella could not help the fierce grip of her hand upon Edward's forearm as the much more crowded courtyard bustled with activity around them. She endeavored to keep her gaze upon her feet, though the various shouts and calls made it difficult to refrain from instinctively lifting her head. Her relief when Edward's voice indicated the carriage was ready was immediate, exhaling loudly as the tension in her muscles eased.

They were not again required to share a carriage, passing through Devon, Somerset and Wiltshire without event, Edward skillfully timing their changes so they always managed to be in a town of such size that a private passage in a post-chaise was available. Though they were still subjected to the indignities of the road, the following days found Isabella heedless of the discomfort and aggravation; the long hours on hard bench seats, traveling into the night with no time for even a quick wash basin bath before rising to begin the journey anew—for what did it matter so long as she was with Edward? Though he still rode alongside the coachman whenever he managed to find a driver willing to continue on the dry, dusty roads long after the sun had set, he spent the daylight hours with her in the cab.

There, hands intertwined, heads inclined towards one another, they spoke in low voices, intimate in a manner she had never dreamed to experience with him.

"I had no notion you were so near."

"I was not," he confessed, tilting his head back, black eyes languid. "I was beyond the hedgerow, in a field of barley—"

"You were not so far!" Isabella exclaimed, astonished. "How did you even note my presence?"

"It was your voice I first heard," Edward replied, his gloved hand tightening around her own. He had thought no other person about, the only sounds the faint lull of the ocean against the distant shore, the wind in the high grass, and the occasional bleating of sheep from a nearby field. The only scent had been the fresh green of fields damp with dew, the oily fleece of the nearby sheep, and what he had thought to be the rich blood of the bull he'd passed moments before. Her words echoed in his head even now. _No, you are a gentle thing…_

"And though I knew I shouldn't, I decided to investigate."

"You startled me," she murmured.

"Ah, but you quickly recovered," he teased. "Which startled me."

"Why?" she couldn't help asking, allowing herself the curiosity she had often hesitated to demonstrate fully in his presence.

Edward's lips briefly thinned, his gaze falling to where their hands were joined. "That you feel no fear—it is a rare thing, Isabella." He shook his head. Even the few women who had been drawn to his beauty strongly enough to venture close had hesitated once they were in his arms, their thoughts revealing the fear they felt when his lips drew near.

"But you would never hurt me," Isabella quietly replied. "I should fear you no more than I fear…" she paused, thinking. "No more than I fear Sheil," she continued with a laugh.

Edward could not help his soft laugh as well, but his eyes sank shut at the faith she had in him. "Those impulses do not simply disappear," he tried to counter her statement but Isabella's eyes quickly narrowed, interrupting before he could complete the thought.

"And you have overcome those impulses every time."

Edward knew it was no use continuing the argument, but it mattered naught for she was changing the topic, her gaze still filled with curiosity. "You were looking for Alice when you came upon me."

Edward nodded slowly in response, wary of the direction of the conversation. "Yes."

"Where do you think she has gone?"

Edward shook his head, "If I had any notion, I would have found her by now."

"And she…" Isabella's voice fell to a whisper. "She is like you."

Edward's hand briefly tightened around her own, his gaze turning to the countryside passing beyond the window, his voice tight as he forced the words past his lips. "It was inevitable," he answered, "that she either change into what I am, or that I kill her."

He could not turn his gaze to witness Isabella's response, the rapid patter of her heart proof enough of her distress. "How…" her voice was a faint whisper, her hand tight around his own.

Edward could not help the disgust that filled his voice, his lip curling as he spit out the words, "My…sire has never approved of my diet." It was at this that he finally turned, anxious she should make no mistake as to his meaning. "You may not think us monsters…but neither are we gods, cursed with the ability to take or give life according to our own fickle desires. I was naïve at first—naïve and too filled with blood lust in the beginning to challenge what I was told."

Her face was pale as she listened, her lips slightly parted, eyes wide as she absorbed his words.

Edward's voice briefly turned wry as he continued. "The blood lust is an unfortunate aspect of the early days and weeks." He shook his head again, "I know not whether it is age and experience that allow our kind to temper those desires…or whether it's a matter of character, of will." His voice had fallen to a whisper on the final word, his gaze on their joined hands. "My sire never agreed with my decision to abstain from taking human life." He exhaled, his eyes sinking shut. "I'm certain she saw what I could not—that it would ultimately force us to part ways."

The hitch in Isabella's breath was as he expected, but he still could not help the fear that darted through his veins at her response. The two words were the faintest whisper when she spoke, "Your sire…"

Edward's gaze lifted from their hands, hoping and trusting that she would understand.

"Victoire," he spoke flatly. "She is vain and capricious, and above all, tremendously proud." He saw Isabella swallow at this swift dismissal of the woman who had changed him so many decades ago, her dark eyes wide and trusting. "I had not spoken to her in quite some time." His lips thinned. When they had happened to cross paths in the past, she had never failed to make pointed jibes, taunting him for what she saw as weakness. "She has never forgiven me for the choice I made. She sees it as an affront to the privilege she bestowed upon me," he could not help the derision in his voice, his nostrils flaring with the words. When he had first struggled with denying the blood lust, feeding from the city rats and mongrels that were the only animals he could think to stalk without drawing notice, she had brought one of her victims before him in a bid to weaken his resolve—or torment him…he was never quite sure which.

"I have brought you a gift, Édouard," she had laughed, black eyes sparkling as she snaked an arm around the prostitute's waist. The salon had been blazing with candles for Victoire always thought herself most beautiful by its light, her hair a flaming halo piled atop her graceful head, her skin like snow. The prostitute, no more than sixteen, had laughed in kind—but the sound was nervous, sensing the danger she was in.

"Victoire, please—"

"You know this is what you want," Victoire had purred, drawing the young girl before her. The prostitute had fallen silent, her smile fading from her lips as her hands faintly trembled with fear.

Victoire had lifted a gloved hand, drawing away the blond locks that had lain across the young girl's throat. It was only then that her thoughts shifted from the visceral sensation of the girl's skin, her scent and warmth, to anticipating the taste of her blood.

Edward had leapt forward but it was too late, watching with parted lips and flared nostrils as Victoire drank her fill before dropping the girl unceremoniously to the floor. The young prostitute had slumped to the parquet like a rag doll, blue eyes stunned as blood continued to ooze from the gash in her throat.

"Drink, Édouard!" Victoire had demanded. "It is your nature—it is your right!"

He had gazed down upon the quivering girl, her limbs beginning to twitch as the life rapidly faded from her eyes, and was astonished to find he felt no thirst—only a tremendous sadness for the life that had been wasted. His gaze was hard and cold as he met Victoire's determined stare, before he had turned on his heel without speaking, determined to part ways with her forever.

"And you're certain it was her," Isabella faintly asked, breaking into the terrible memories. "It was Victoire who changed Alice?"

Edward shook his head. "It could be no one else." He had no sense of how his sire had preoccupied herself during the revolution and the following years of upheaval; she had always claimed that times of conflict were ideal for vampires as victims were little noticed with soldiers looting and setting fire to towns across the countryside, and battle fields ripe with the mortally wounded.

He had wanted nothing to do with such turmoil, and as heads were mounted on pikes at Versailles, he had decided it was time to depart the land of his birth for a time. His return had been brought on by sentimentality, a lack of affinity for the English culture that seemed unmannered at best after a century in France, and the hope that the Peace of Amiens would hold. If only he hadn't lingered in the Montcarvel market…

"I did not sense her presence," Edward admitted, his voice grim, "but Victoire was always skilled at evading notice when she most wished to be invisible." He had no idea whether she had been anticipating his arrival, or if she simply happened to be in Calais when his ship docked and began following him out of capricious curiosity.

"The little attention I paid Alice," he continued, shaking his head, "it was enough to condemn her."

"It is not your fault, Edward," Isabella attempted to console him, her voice soft as she lifted a hand to his jaw.

"I should have been more cautious," he disagreed. His eyes sank shut. "I shouldn't have returned to France at all."

He could still see her limp figure, a pale outline in the falling dusk, one white hand flung across the golden grass, skirts tangled about her legs. As his mind registered the dark hair tucked beneath her worn lace cap, and the faint fragrance of the lavender and daisies she had been selling at the market, he had stilled with the far more shocking realization that the scent of blood was almost entirely absent.

He had rushed the few yards to her figure, knowing even then that only Victoire would abandon her victim like this, discarded in a freshly scythed field like so much baggage. He had glanced about, suddenly certain it could be no coincidence that the girl was here, only a mile from the inn where he'd found rooms, distant enough from town that he could be certain of finding fresh game nearby. As his gaze had darted over the quiet countryside, the sky violet with coming night, the only sound the chirping of crickets in the shorn grass, he had wondered if Victoire watched him still, laughing at his horror. How had he ever thought her mesmerizing?

As he kneeled at Alice's side, he could hear the faintest flutter of her heart, the pace increasing even now, as Victoire's venom coursed through her veins. "_Fils de salope_," he'd sworn as he gently took her pointed chin in his hand, turning her face towards him.

She had felt cold to his touch but he knew it would still be a matter of days before the change was complete. His gaze fell to her throat, nostrils flaring at the faint scent of blood that still stained the wound there.

"I had a choice," his voice was low, dark eyes blank as he thought back to that fateful day. "I could either end what Victoire had begun," he exhaled, shoulders sagging. "Or I could allow Alice to change." He shook his head. "I am still not certain I did not act selfishly, failing to end her existence when I had the chance." His free hand curled into a fist upon his knee, knuckles white where the skin strained over his bones. "That it would have been less monstrous to let her die."

"Oh, Edward…" There was undeniable sorrow tinging Isabella's voice but he could not lift his gaze to see the horror he was certain must shadow her features. To his disbelief, he felt her arms curl around his shoulders, the nearness of her body soft, warm and comforting. He stiffened in surprise, unable to believe in this response of sympathy. "How could your actions have possibly been selfish?" she asked, her lips so close to his ear, he could feel the warmth of her breath against his cool skin.

It took all of his willpower to turn his head and face her, unable to breathe as she steadily returned his disbelieving stare.

Isabella tilted her head as she saw the confusion and lack of comprehension in his black gaze. "Don't you see?" Her lips twisted with wry sadness before she asked, "Did you leave Alice to her fate?" She did not wait for his response, asking more insistently, "Did you flee the scene and spare no other thought for what had become of her?" Edward could not help his eyes sinking shut at her words, something small and undefined seeming to expand in his chest, slowly filling him with wonder and warmth as she continued speaking. "You took the burden of a horrific act upon yourself, trying to the best of your ability to make it right." Her voice fell to a whisper, firm and fervent. "It was not selfish, it was heroic."

Though his eye were still tightly closed, Edward instinctively raised his hand, finding where Isabella's palm rested on his shoulder, threading his fingers through her own.

Though he could not bring himself to speak the words aloud, he could not deny the impossible thought echoing through his head, full of hope, full of wonder.

Perhaps she was right.


	27. London

Thank you so much for reading & reviewing.

* * *

><p>…<em>consider the many inducements which conspire to make London the happiest place at present she can be in.<em>

_Evelina, or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance Into the World  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**twenty-seven**

The rain began to fall when they were yet several miles distant from the outskirts of London. For this Isabella was grateful as the accumulation of manure upon the heavily traveled road was so great, that a persistent mist of flies buzzed and bumped repeatedly through the air, and the smell was so pungent that she held a handkerchief to her nose, wishing it were scented with rose water.

Edward had swung up to the box as dusk had first darkened the sky, the brim of his hat tipped low over his brow, gaze determined as he joined the coachman for the last stretch of their journey. Isabella knew she should not be surprised that he did not return to the cab when the soft patter of falling rain began to tap against the carriage roof, but she could not help gazing with worry in the direction of the box, hoping he was not made uncomfortable by the rapidly fouling weather.

But she was soon distracted by the plumes of smoke that appeared upon the horizon trailing towards the sky, visible even in the slanting rain, gray threads wisping and weaving towards the heavy clouds above. She attempted to count them and quickly realized they numbered greater than any town they'd yet passed through, indicating a populace beyond a size she could imagine. As they crested a hill, the jangling of metal indicating the horses were tossing their heads in their traces, she soon saw that the spires of churches might very well outnumber the fires smoking from chimney stacks, like daggers against the sky.

The carriage creaked as the wheels churned against the rapidly muddying surface of the road, the coachman's whip audibly cracking as he spurred the horses on. Isabella could verily imagine that Edward was urging him on, eager to get beyond this bad patch of weather to the destination they'd sought these past days.

Miraculously, the rain began to lessen, the sky lightening as swiftly as it had darkened. Isabella leaned towards the window, peering up to the gray clouds that still sent rain spitting down. She could not help wondering if this was an omen in favor of their arrival, boding well for their time in the capital.

She did not have long to contemplate this notion for the carriage soon turned off the thoroughfare, diverging south towards what appeared to be a green parkland rather than the sprawling, smoking metropolis upon the horizon. Isabella's lips parted with surprise and she thought to lower the window and call up to Edward, certain he must have changed his mind about their destination at the last moment. Hadn't he spent a good portion of this journey claiming they were set for one destination while instead pressing on to another?

But the churning mud and gravel gave way to even cobblestones so swiftly that she knew they must be approaching the city still—and as she turned to peer through the opposite window, she saw buildings so impressive and elegant in their design that she was certain they must be the houses of parliament…or perhaps a palace with outbuildings for each of the princes? Grecian columns ran the length of the street, like white soldiers in the dusky gloom standing at attention; windows topped by classical pediments in pale stone were so numerous that even in the weakening light of coming dusk, the panes gleamed and caught the last of the day's light.

Isabella was barely able to absorb these impressive surroundings before the carriage was turning west again, the coachman calling out in warning to the other vehicles on the road; Isabella saw they were narrowly missed by a coalman, who was jerking at his reins with a vexed expression upon his sooty face. As she returned her attention to her surroundings, she saw the edifices before her were no less impressive, though she spied signs swinging from buildings on the south side of the street indicating some of the noble structures were inns. "Inns for the very well-to-do," she murmured to herself.

As the thought was born that they might be destined for one of these fine inns, the carriage began swinging left with a shout from the coachman and the clatter of wheels against cobblestones, jockeying through a tangle of hansom cabs—and a carriage so large and opulent that she could feel no surprise upon seeing the crest emblazoned upon its door. Though she had no notion which noble house the crest represented, she could feel no shock that a vehicle so ornately gilded and oversized must belong to someone of consequence.

The street down which they now turned was far more narrow than the broad thoroughfare from which they'd just come, but the homes were only slightly more modest in their grandeur. The windows were just as numerous, and had now begun to glow with the faint warmth of candle light, ornate street lamps in wrought iron adding to the soft illumination. Wrought iron fences marked the border between the buildings and the pavement in several places, though the strip of space they guarded was so minute that Isabella couldn't help a small, confused smile at their presence.

The coach was soon turning again, angling onto another broad street—but before they could join the light traffic of coaches, curricles, and hansoms clipping down the cobblestones, the horses were veering to the right, ducking into a narrow lane bordered by mews, the smell of horses and hay so strong that Isabella could not possibly mistake where they were. The scent of coal smoke hung upon the air, an acrid pall permeating everything; Isabella wondered if they would be in London long enough for her to grow accustomed to it.

The coach drew to a halt before a set of steps that descended into what she presumed were the kitchens and other servant's quarters, the rear entrance of a townhouse in a row of similar structures abutting the mews. Edward had sprung down before she could fully register that they had arrived, throwing open the door and lifting his arm in assistance. She thought to stutter some question to confirm that this was their destination, but his gaze was fixed on the coachman, nodding towards the steps with a few words of direction.

Before she could do more than gaze up to the overcast skies, tilting her head back to see beyond the brim of her bonnet, the coachman had already unloaded her valises and Edward's trunk. Her gaze jerked from the pile of baggage as the coachman's gruff voice broke the quiet, "And I never saw the likes of you." He was tucking the coins Edward had just handed him into an inner pocket in his jacket, glancing to Isabella with a respectful nod before swinging back up to the box of his carriage.

Isabella's gaze darted back to Edward as he waved a negligient hand, but his attention had already shifted from the departing coach to the townhouse before which they stood. Turning to Isabella, he smiled faintly, "Shall we?"

She could do no more than swallow and nod in return, following as he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and retrieved a key. He spared no further glances for the coach clattering away, though Isabella couldn't help watching it go, not quite certain she could grasp how far she'd come—nor what lay ahead.

Then the door was open and Edward was slipping inside, his figure graceful as he disappeared into the shadowed confines of the house. She did not think to hesitate before following, leaving the door ajar behind her.

She paused, however, upon finding herself in what appeared to be the kitchen of the house—though the space was dusty and unused. "But where..." Isabella finally found her voice, watching as Edward stalked past a large hearth empty of banked coals, a heavy wooden table naked of herbs or food, disregarding a set of narrow doors that likely led to a pantry, larder, and coal store. Instead, he turned up a narrow set of stairs and she found she had to quickly follow to keep him in sight.

Isabella was unsurprised to see Edward upon the threshold of a door covered in green baize—the door that led from the servant's quarters into the front of the house. "But where is everyone?" she couldn't resist asking before following him any further. "Won't they notice our presence even if we're here only a short time?"

Edward's brow briefly furrowed as he glanced over his shoulder, but his black eyes soon filled with amusement. "This is my home," he replied. "You need not concern yourself regarding any unexpected arrivals." He nodded through the crack in the door. "Come."

Obediently, she followed his figure up the narrow steps uncovered by any carpet and through the door, listening as he offered further explanation, "I purchased the property when I first arrived in England, primarily as an investment given the development of the area." They had crossed into a corridor floored in marble, his boots tapping upon the surface as he passed a dining room filled with shrouded furniture. "Mayfair is thought to be quite desireable but I generally dislike the city." He tapped his temple as he glanced back to her. "Too much noise."

They had reached another door through which Edward stepped without hesitation. Isabella quickly followed as he continued speaking, "I spent some time with Carlisle in Scotland where he was studying but traveled periodically—including returning to London on occasion." He had crossed into a room that was so enshrouded in canvas fabric that she hesitated upon the threshold, unable to shake the impression that she'd wandered into a mausoleum. Even the walls were draped in the heavy ivory covers, the furniture unrecognizable distorted shapes scattered about the room. "I asked my solicitor to let the property when I thought my visit was to France to be of some length, but of course," Edward glanced over his shoulder again, his lips twisting, "that turned out not to be the case."

He went on as he reached for one of the shrouds hanging upon the wall. "I briefly considered one of the inns on Piccadilly but think it far preferable to forego being surrounded by other guests, servants, hostlers, and an innkeeper who will likely be as curious as any other member of their profession." He paused as he yanked the shroud down, "Though I suppose we'll need to engage servants for the short time we're here."

Isabella had a dozen questions but they all flew from her mind as the canvas cloth fell away to reveal shelf upon shelf of books, rows of leather clad volumes reaching as high as the ceilings. "Edward!" she gasped.

He simply grinned at her response, his eyes bright. "I was certain you would appreciate the library."

"I didn't realize that's where we were!" she exclaimed.

Edward moved to the next shelf and roughly yanked down the canvas covering, the fabric snapping and billowing at his feet. "My thought was to make this room available to you, along with the master bedchamber abovestairs." He shook his head as he crossed to her side, "I apologize that I didn't engage servants in advance but the date of our arrival was never certain, and I would prefer to personally select anyone I bring into the household."

"You know I have no great need for being waited upon," Isabella faintly observed as she drifted towards the shelf he had just uncovered, unable to hid her curiosity.

"Of this I am very aware," Edward softly responded, watching with mild amusement as she struggled to shift her gaze from the row of books before her. His voice then grew firm, "But I shan't have you laboring in the kitchen and emptying your own chamberpot—for I'm certain these are tasks Sheil never allowed you to do."

Isabella couldn't help a faint, sad smile upon hearing the name of her companion, turning from the shelf to regard Edward with a musing gaze. "What's more," Edward continued, "I won't ask you to eat cold victuals at every meal." He lifted a shoulder nonchalantly. "It will only be a short time, likely less than a fortnight, and I'll pay them so handsomely that any curiosity they have about the brevity of the employment will be easily forgotten." He lifted a pale hand, hesitantly touching her cheek. "And if you have no objection, I also thought to engage a dressmaker."

At this, Isabella's eyes flared wide before her brow furrowed. "For what reason?" She glanced down to her rumpled walking gown, which had doubled as a traveling gown for the duration of their journey. Her cheeks slowly warmed, her eyes cutting away from Edward's own as she thought of the other meager articles of clothing in the valises upon the back steps. A painful memory abruptly arose, her nails digging into her palms as the words echoed in her head…_poor as a church mouse…_

A note of defiance tinged her voice as she whispered, "You know I am not extravagant."

Edward's voice grew gentle. "Of this I am also aware." She glimpsed his hand fall away in the corner of her vision but she could not bring her gaze to his own. "If I engage servants," Edward reasoned, "I want there to be no mistaking your status as my wife." Then, in a rush of words, his true desire became apparent, "And can I not wish to shower you in the finest fabrics, to lavish you with all I can possibly offer?"

Isabella's gaze finally rose, her heart fluttering in her breast at the earnestness in his voice, in his countenance. Slowly, she lifted a trembling hand to his jaw, watching as his eyes sank shut at her touch. "You know you do not need to buy my affection." His skin was smooth and cold against her fingertips, but there was such affection in how his head tilted towards her palm that she felt as if her hand was afire. "I am yours, Edward."

He nodded slowly against her hand before his black lashes slowly lifted, dark eyes sparkling. "Indulge me," he softly asked. "And pretend it is for the sake of servants and others who might question our relationship to one another."

Isabella glanced down again to her rumpled, faded gown before inhaling deeply as her hand fell from his cheek. Before she could acquiesce, he was speaking again, his voice the softest murmur. "Que vous alliez vêtue ainsi qu'une princesse…"

Her brow immediately furrowed, recalling that long ago conversation on the Coast Path, the thoughtfulness of his gaze as he had spoken the words while under the impression she would not understand. Before she could query his reasoning for repeating the line from the play, he was speaking, quietly explaining. "I have always disagreed with Madame Pernelle." He shook his head, "A husband should long to see his wife in finery—if not for her pleasure, than for his own." Edward's gaze grew intense, dark eyes glittering. "I would shower you in jewels, should you allow it."

Isabella's frown faded with understanding as a slow flush crept up her throat to her cheeks. "I had not thought of all you could provide," she finally replied, her voice soft. She tugged at her skirt, the fabric unmistakably worn, the faint print upon the muslin faded from many washings and exposure to the sun.

Edward took her hands, a soft laugh rumbling from his throat, "When you have an eternity to accumulate your wealth, such things come easily." His thumbs drew circles upon the backs of her hands. "Please do not trouble yourself greatly with the thought of the cost. It is nothing."

Isabella swallowed and nodded. Though she was certain that her path must follow Edward's, the reality of all that this meant had never been so starkly clear.

"I will uncover the furniture in the master bedchamber abovestairs, and will see to our things."

Before she could offer to help, he was already shaking his head. "Please make yourself comfortable," he glanced to the array of books lining the walls. "I will also see to fetching a meal for you." He briefly hesitated before continuing, "While we made good time, I would like to continue to exercise caution should we have been pursued. If you would, please stay away from the windows—and do not go outside."

"Of course," Isabella whispered, fighting away a shiver.

Edward abruptly leaned forward, the sudden movement distracting her from her fear, before he bowed his head to plant a kiss upon her cheek. "I will return before long."

She nodded, watching as he retreated from the room.

Several minutes passed before she could shake herself from her swirling thoughts to again attempt to inspect the shelves. She was unsurprised to find a multitude of classics in Latin and Greek, some of which she recognized by the author's names, though she could not read the text: Plutarch, Socrates, Euripedes, Plato, Cicero, Livy, Virgil. But there were just as many names she did not recognize: Simonides, Aelian, Propertius, Pollio. She pulled a book at random from the shelf and her lips quirked at finding the pages littered with angular text she could not deciper, a swirl of Greek letters that had no meaning for her.

As she inspected the other shelves, she found books in French, Italian and Spanish, quickly determining that the library was organized by region, and within each region by period. She lingered over the French texts, finding many books and plays her mother had loved, Moliere, Voltaire, Isabella de Charriére, but others Renée had never read…and some that were in a French so archaic, she struggled to understand the phrases.

"Chrétien de Troyes," she murmured, cracking open a small book bounded in faded blue leather no bigger than the palm of her hand. As her eyes scanned the words, she found she was able to decipher the text, though it took her a moment to register the meaning. Perhaps this would do, contemporary enough to read, yet old enough that she would be forced to focus to fully understand the meaning…

Just as she was rifling beneath the canvas covers, attempting to find a chair, a voice sounded from behind her. "I'll take care of that before I go."

She spun with a surprised gasp, nearly dropping the book—but Edward seemed not to note her reaction, his figure passing her so rapidly that her skirt gusted before her, caught in the wake of his movement. He was a swift, whirling blur, the canvas covers snapping from the furniture like sails caught in the wind, accumulating in a neat pile near the door.

"Edward!" she couldn't help gasping, ever caught off guard by the abilities he no longer bothered to conceal from her in any way.

He was before her then, his smile sly, his hair in a messy disarray, as if he delighted in these surprised reactions, black eyes amused. "The bedchamber is ready for you should you choose to retire." His hands were at her shoulders, his smile fading. "I'll return as soon as I can." He paused only a moment. "Remember what I said."

"Stay away from the windows," Isabella obediently repeated. "Don't go outside." He nodded once, satisfied, before swiftly landing a firm kiss upon her lips.

"I will return soon, mon chérie."

The endearment fell from his lips easily but it was one he'd never spoken before. She could not help the faint flush that stole along her cheeks at the words, but he was already gone, a flit of movement she was not entirely certain she had not imagined.

Glancing about her at the now uncovered contents of the room, she crossed to a chair before a massive walnut desk and settled into its padded seat, cracking the book open with a thoughtful expression.

It took her some time to grow settled enough to focus on the text. Her gaze could not help repeatedly rising, marveling yet again at the rich, spacious quarters, the multitude of books, the fine rug beneath her feet, the velvet armrest beneath her elbow. She could not help thinking over Edward's words, his endearments, his entreaties to stay away from the curtained windows, his recitation of the French play that had so caught her off guard an eternity ago, a confusing entreaty against extravagance.

Had he known even then that he would be in a position to spoil her as he seemed to wish to do? Had he suspected the outcome of continuing their acquaintance? Edward had said on several occasions that he could not stay away, indicating that he knew he should. Now that she knew the truth of his nature, she thought she understood why this was so—that he thought himself unworthy, that he thought himself a monster. Isabella shook her head, her bottom lip caught beneath her teeth. If he was a monster, then so was she.

After some time, she was finally able to focus upon the text on the page, but when the light beyond the curtains faded to the point that she was no longer able to decipher the ink, she knew she should rise and light a candle. Sighing, she rose and fumbled at the drawers of the walnut desk, soon finding a tinderbox with which to light the stub of candle upon the desk's leather blotter.

Only, when the candle was lit she found she was no longer interested in the book of medieval romance and gallantry, her gaze caught by the sheets of foolscap in the open desk drawer. Slowly, she sank into the matching walnut chair angled before the desk, reaching for the paper as if in a trance. She fingered the heavy sheet for several seconds, knowing that what she wished to do simply wasn't possible—but perhaps someday…someday she might be able to post the letter.

Quickly, before she lost her courage, she rooted in the drawers for a fresh pot of ink and quill, relieved to find she didn't need to use a knife to sharpen the tip. She bent over the paper and was soon swiftly absorbed in spilling words across the page, brow furrowed with intense concentration.

It was some time before she ceased writing, leaning back in the chair with a weary sigh. She glanced to the door, wondering at Edward's absence but certain he was likely perfectly safe. Though the shadowed house might seem frightening, unfamiliar and foreign, faint noises echoing from the street outside, she had no intention of repeating her adventure in Bridestowe. With a soft laugh at the thought of that fateful night, she rose from the chair and, taking the chamberstick as well as the letter, decided to find the bedchamber. She was far too tired to eat, and was content in the knowledge that she would find Edward waiting for her with the dawn of the coming day.

She discovered a staircase whose proportions were largely hidden from her at the front of the house, her hand carefully cupped around the flame of the candle in the instance that someone might see the light from outside and become suspicious of squatting residents. Slowly climbing the stairs, she came upon a wide corridor where only one of the many doors was ajar. Crossing to it, she was unsurprised to find a wide bed framed in curtains, the the mattress so plump with swansdown that it appeared mountainous between the bedposts.

Settling the chamberstick and letter upon the nightstand, she quickly disrobed, her thoughts scattered. Beneath the disarray of her mind, though, was a contentment she noted with some wonderment. Perhaps it was the absence of fear, certain that Edward would keep her safe, especially given they were no longer subject to the vagaries of the road. She glanced to the letter, a creamy mark in the darkness, folded into thirds and mottled with a single name. Though she knew she could not send it, she could not help hoping her estrangement from all she had known would not be one without end.

_Sheil,_

_I am safe. I am certain Edward assured you this would be so but feel strongly the need to put those words to paper, that you would not be satisfied until such a reassurance came from my own tongue. He has been all solicitousness, ensuring my comfort and safety through an incredibly trying journey. I have eaten only because he has reminded me I should, I have rested because he has insisted upon it, and I have been delivered safely from the horrors that mob intended only through his efforts._

_I was once concerned that it was only his honor and desire to ensure my safety that motivated our continued passage together, but he has made it clear that his interest in me has never faltered; Sheil, he intends to marry me. _

_You may scoff and bluster at the notion that I thought to beg off, that I did not wish to enter into a union where the only drivers are honor and duty. But can you fault me when I have only the marriage of my dear mother and father as an example by which to compare all companionship? Their love and regard for one another has never been one I thought to emulate, but with Edward I feel such hope._

_For of this I am certain: he loves me. It begs all reason, all logical thought—but he loves me. Despite the wild circumstances that have forced us into more intimate company, he does not resent the support he provides. He does not take advantage of my vulnerability, forced into concealment. I am the most fortunate woman in the world, for you must know I love him in return._

_Though I do not know if it will ever be possible for me to return to Cornwall and share my good fortune with you, I could not leave you with any misapprehension as to my future. As long as I am with Edward, I am safe, and I am loved._

_With affection,_

_Isabella Swan_

Though he had not spoken the words, she had no doubt at the truth of what she had written. It was not merely for Sheil's sake that she had put the words to paper, for she had no idea if she would ever be able to send the missive to her former nursemaid. As her eyes sank shut, her head sinking into the pillow, she felt the certainty of it as surely as she knew the sun would rise in the east…and Edward would be waiting for her upon the morrow.


	28. Change of Situation

_Thank you so much for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>-may'st thou, in this change of situation, experience no change of disposition!<em>

_Evelina, or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance Into the World  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**twenty eight**

"Higher, higher!"

Isabella started, dragged from a tangle of thoughts by the brisk voice, before shaking her head and obediently lifting her arm from where it had begun to droop at her side. She could not ever recall having been so thoroughly measured before. Sheil's method had been to simply wrap a coarse length of twine about Isabella's waist and bust as a rough guide, then pin, fit, and alter the dress on Isabella's frame after piecing the garment together with loosely basted threads. Of course, Sheil had had the benefit of residing with Isabella, while Madame Desjardins was apparently going to deliver a finished wardrobe in three days' time.

"And what do you think of this pattern, Madame Maçon?" The dressmaker asked, her voice so solicitous that Isabella could verily imagine the sum Edward must have promised as reward for providing an extensive wardrobe at such short notice.

"I—I…" Isabella's gaze fell to the illustration, a stylized rendering of a young lady with a beatific smile in a traveling gown; her figure was long and slender, her dark hair covered by a bonnet bedecked with braided trim and fluttering feathers.

"You see the braid on her hat matches the braid at the hem of the gown," the dressmaker helpfully remarked as her assistant stooped to measure the length between Isabella's waist and the floor.

"Very pleasing," Isabella promptly responded but there was little emotion in her voice; she had long since passed the point of being overwhelmed and was no longer certain that it mattered which lace, braid or ribbon bedecked her gowns—for there were to be so many!

She could not claim to be without vanity. Had she not fantasized about what a luxury it must be to have the means to purchase whichever fabric one pleased, gazing with longing at the bolts of cloth arrayed behind Mr. Snow at his shop in Mousehole? Had she not gazed into the looking glass and wished for a lady's maid to arrange her hair in the latest style illustrated in fashion plates similar to the one the dressmaker was gesturing to now? She could recall with what gratefulness Sheil had expressed her relief when they both realized Isabella was no longer growing, for it meant they could go far longer between fabric purchases. Isabella had rapidly become an expert in the art of mending, even when fabric had become worn and faded, for she simply could not justify the extravagance of a new gown unless it was absolutely necessary.

Therefore she had regarded the appointment that morning with some anticipation, cheeks faintly flushed and a smile lingering over her lips as Edward introduced her to Madame Desjardins and the young assistant who had accompanied her into the library. Isabella could not help noting that as Edward had suspected, the dressmaker's countenance betrayed a brief moment of confusion as her gaze quickly darted over Isabella's figure and then flickered to Edward's own. Though she loathed admitting the poverty of her appearance, and briefly wondered with sudden insight if that was part of Edward's fascination with her, her disregard for material matters—she could not deny the contrast they presented as Edward stood at her side.

His wool coat was richly dyed, the color a deep navy that contrasted sharply to the buff of his breeches. The coat was expertly tailored, a waistcoat of black jacquard beneath faintly gleaming in contrast to the wool. A crisp cravat circled his throat, his black boots shining as though polished only that morning.

Isabella's gaze fell to her own figure and she wondered that the innkeepers and servants they had encountered along the road had treated her with any courtesy for she looked nothing more than a poor relation at Edward's side. Her walking gown was unadorned by even the simplest of lace or ribbon, the faint stripe upon the muslin so faded that the color appeared more gray than the blue it had originally been. Her hair was simply drawn into a knot at her nape, her hands, throat and ears naked of jewelry.

But Madame Desjardins betrayed no curiosity as she began to outline what she expected a full wardrobe to include, and Isabella was rapidly distracted from her sudden consciousness of her appearance by the woman's odd accent. Edward had warned her that morning that though the dressmaker sported a flowery French name, she was no recent émigré fleeing the turmoil of the revolution.

"She is as English as the vendors from whom I purchased your breakfast in the market this morning—but she attempts to approximate a French accent for it is all the fashion with the _beau monde._"

Though Isabella's lips twitched at the forced French accent, she found herself quickly forgetting the pretentious mannerism as the list of items went on. She could not help turning to Edward and whispering, "Edward, are you certain—"

But he was already circling the desk and retrieving a leather bound ledger from one of the drawers. "As I mentioned, I will provide half now and half upon delivery."

Isabella bit her lip, realizing any arguments were futile. And as she glanced down at her gown again, she knew she should simply comply with his wishes.

Soon, however, Isabella found herself overwhelmed by the multitude of decisions to make. She must choose between morning gowns with rounded or square necklines, fichus in gauzy linen or fine lace, walking gowns patterned in simple stripes, or stripes that were rows of flowers upon closer inspection—and did she prefer feathers in emerald green, such a lovely contrast to her dark hair, or a pale ivory to match her complexion?

Madame Desjardins had been accompanied by a trunk filled with swatches of fabric, lengths of lace, ribbon, braid, velvet cord, feathers, and various samples of stockings, gloves, and fans. The library rapidly began to give the impression that it was being converted into a dress shop as Madame Desjardins and her assistant began to present Isabella with the contents of the trunk for her inspection—and she struggled to decide which walking gown patterns she liked best of the dozen scattered before her. She might have appealed to Edward but he had long ago disappeared into the quarters belowstairs to meet with several applicants for domestic positions in the house.

As if sensing Isabella's state of mind, Madame Desjardins nodded at the traveling gown illustration. "If Madame Maçon is satisfied that this pattern shall do, I would suggest a corded wool in puce." She flipped through a selection of swatches until she landed on the violet red color. Isabella nodded, relieved at having the choice made for her.

"While I am certain Madame Maçon has other duties, I understand there is also the need for smallclothes, and perhaps handkerchiefs, fans, reticules and other…"

But Isabella could not attend to the remaining suggestions Madame Desjardins was endeavoring to make, a single word she had spoken snagging in Isabella's mind like a bur caught in a petticoat…_smallclothes…_ Her cheeks flamed the brightest red, her mind overcome by the memory of that morning.

She had woken slowly, languidly stretching her arms above her head and curling into the softness of the mattress beneath her body. Then, as her eyes flickered open, she had felt a dart of confusion for it was pitch dark—and she felt so thoroughly rested that she was certain the sun must be high in the sky.

But she had quickly realized the darkness was due to the curtains being drawn about the bed, and as she rose from the pillows a smile curved over her lips—for she knew it meant Edward had been there. She could easily imagine him stealing into the room, discerning she was asleep, and drawing the curtains to ensure she did not wake with the first light of the summer sun.

Kicking back the tangle of counterpane and sheets, Isabella had pushed the curtains aside with eagerness pulsing in her veins. She had hesitated but only because her vision was abruptly filled with white, stilling as her eyes adjusted to the light glowing through the ivory panels covering the bedchamber windows.

Toes curling into the silken carpets beneath her feet, Isabella glanced down to the shift she had worn to bed, uninterested in finding her night gown in the valise she now saw was next to the clothes press. She knew she should dress but she was too excited to find Edward.

She had paused only a moment upon the threshold, listening for any indication of his presence. Hearing nothing, she determined to find him, certain he must be returned by this hour.

Isabella had spared no thought for her appearance, legs nearly bare beneath the short hem of her shift, hair tumbled and curling about her face and shoulders, the minute sleeves of the shift drooping down her pale arms. After all, Edward had seen her in a state of dishabille upon many occasions, even soaking wet in nothing but a petticoat, shift, and stays; the idea that he would do more than shake his head in amusement at her impulsiveness did not begin to cross her mind.

"I thought I heard you…" he began as he lifted his head from the papers he was perusing.

She had been unsurprised to find him in the library and stopped in the doorway, a brilliant smile upon her lips. Somehow, that his voice had faltered did not appear to her to be significant, blithely filling the silence with her own voice.

"Edward!" her smile brightened as she continued into the room on bare feet. "I knew you must have returned given the bed curtains were drawn but I suppose I was determined to be certain—" He did not appear to be listening and she had finally begun to notice his stricken expression, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. She had glanced down to her shift, lips twisting with consternation. "I'm sorry—I know I should have dressed but given we're alone here, I thought…"

She could speak no more for he was abruptly before her, his arms around her waist and shoulders, his hands tender where they grazed her skin. "Do not apologize," Edward commanded. Inches away, she could see his black eyes were tinted with gold, the color swimming in irises fixed upon her own. But she soon forgot the altered color for his gaze was so intense that she found she could not look away, breath caught in her throat. Only after his gaze fell, dropping to the pale column of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her breasts beneath the shift, did her eyes sink shut, her body leaning like a magnet drawn to his own.

"Oh, Isabella," he murmured, his lips dropping to her throat, a flutter against her skin. "How you tempt me."

"I did not intend…" she managed to whisper, hands lifting to clutch helplessly at his shoulders.

"How I know," Edward had murmured in reply, his lips trailing a path of cool fire across her collar bone. "So innocent," he sighed. "So sweet." She felt the flick of his tongue against her skin and could not help sinking against him fully, luxuriating in the hard frame of his body against her own. Her hands rose from his shoulders, unable to resist threading her fingers through his hair, her head falling back as his lips trailed lower to the swells of her breasts.

"Edward," she moaned, completely forgetting herself, uncaring of how wanton she must seem to him.

His lips rose, finding the curve of her jaw, the tender lobe of her ear, inhaling the sweet scent of her. He knew she had no idea of her affect upon him, her body nearly bare as she had stood framed in the high doorway, like an oil painting come to life. Her pale skin was flushed with what he now knew to be excitement, eager to see him, so eager that she had not bothered to dress. And he had been caught off guard, as he so often was with her, his mind elsewhere…until his gaze had risen to find her pale, rumpled figure—as he so hoped to find her on the eve of their wedding.

It was this thought that returned him to reality, reluctantly dragging his lips from the silken skin at her throat, the pounding of her heart so pronounced that he could feel it against his chest, a faint echo of a sensation he had not experienced for a hundred years. "You must dress, my dear," he murmured, his eyes hooded as he spoke. Two desires fought within him: the desire to be honorable and release her, and the far stronger desire to hold her in his arms, luscious and warm.

"I…" Isabella clearly struggled with the same fight, dragging her hands from his hair while her body nestled more closely against his own.

"The dressmaker," Edward had reminded himself as well as her. "The dressmaker will be here within the hour." With this, he had finally pulled himself away, thrusting his hands through his hair in an attempt to keep himself from dragging her back into his arms. He shook his head, struggling to clear it.

"The dressmaker," Isabella had faintly echoed. Then, recalling herself, she glanced down to her figure and the nearly sheer shift that covered it. The peaks of her breasts were visible against the fabric, taut with arousal.

Flushing so red that her cheeks felt as if they were afire, Isabella abruptly spun on her heel and raced from the room, calling behind her, "I'll return in a moment!"

The fire did not fade from Isabella's cheeks as the dressmaker attempted to assuage her embarrassment by offering, "I daresay there is no need to suffer any mortification at the need for smallclothes, Madame Maçon—every young lady requires such things to be decent beneath these new light gowns!"

The older woman laughed reassuringly and Isabella managed to swallow and nod with rapid jerking motions. "Of course, of course—petticoats, a few shifts."

"Edged in lace?" Madame Desjardins asked.

"Yes, to be sure." Isabella could imagine Edward being pleased by the idea and abruptly flushed again.

"And perhaps I will bring by a few fans, reticules, and slippers when I return with your gowns." She tilted her head, "and Madame can decide then if she wishes to make additional purchases."

Isabella nodded, grateful that the dressmaker's young assistant had begun packing up the trunk, tumbling swatches, lace, and feathers from the walnut desk, and sweeping up pattern illustrations with nimble hands.

"Certainly," Isabella replied, returning her gaze to Madame Desjardins. "Thank you so much for rearranging your schedule."

Madame Desjardins curtsied, a smile crossing her thin lips. "But of course, Madame Maçon." Her eyes were amused as she added, "Is it not as Monsieur Maçon wishes?"

Isabella could not help her own smile in return. "Yes," she answered. "Yes, it is."

Edward emerged from the rear of the house soon after the dressmaker had departed, his expression preoccupied yet attentive. "Everything was satisfactory with Madame Desjardins?"

"Yes," Isabella smiled, "if a bit overwhelming."

Edward reached for her waist, his lips at her hair. "Thank you for indulging me."

"And your task? Have you found appropriate help?" Like ordering a full wardrobe, she was still not entirely convinced a retinue of staff were needed, but Edward had insisted that morning that it would not do to occupy the house without help.

After she had washed and dressed and returned to the library with her cheeks still pink, memories of their embrace fresh in her mind, he had updated her on his latest plans.

"I met with my solicitor this morning and asked that he send over applicants who can be available for a short term engagement, and be well compensated for their efforts." He had gestured to a basket of food as he spoke, another errand he had undertaken that morning.

"Your solicitor?" she had asked, her embarrassment fading as curiosity took hold. He had mentioned it the prior night but she had been too taken by his collection of books to form any questions on the matter.

"It is sometimes necessary to employ someone else to manage certain matters." Edward had lifted a shoulder in a diffident shrug, watching as she selected a pear from the basket. "It ensures my name and face are not overly associated with accounts, property and the like. I can also hire a new solicitor whenever suspicions begin to arise—though I try to limit my interactions to prevent this from happening in the first place." He largely dealt with his current solicitor via post, though a visit to Mr. Sawyer's offices that morning had been necessary to ensure he was able to begin interviewing servants immediately.

Edward had spent the remainder of his morning meeting with a score of candidates, most of whom he was able to swiftly dismiss after only a short conversation. For their thoughts were unabashedly given over to various nefarious plans to make away with the silver or linens, subservient smiles concealing covetous thoughts. It was not entirely surprising given his need for staff at such short notice for such a short duration; most domestics were paid a pittance with their room and board, and need for a reference, meant to outweigh any desire to abscond with their masters' belongings.

Edward was eventually relieved to find one rough woman, her figure round, her features wrinkled, who displayed no avarice as she stood with Edward in the servants' dining area adjacent to the kitchen. Her thoughts were simply echoed by her words.

"I was turned out because the lady hired a fancy French cook from the Continent—begging your pardon, sir."

"No offense taken," Edward smiled benignly. "Are you able to begin right away? I will endeavor to find a kitchen maid but you may need to visit the market yourself."

"Ain't no bother to me," she replied. "The wages promised would pay two kitchen maids and a cook, if you don't mind me saying," she laughed. But Edward could see beyond that, she had no curiosity as to why the engagement was so short—only thoughts of how she might visit her daughter in the country once the employment was over.

A housemaid was hired equally quickly, her shyness concealing a multitude of anxious thoughts about appearing too young, too inexperienced, or too gauche to work in such a fine house. She was admittedly young, her narrow face betraying no lines, but her figure was likely small due to poor diet as much as her youth. However, a few questions revealed she had been working since she had first come to London at the age of nine.

"I was a scullery maid for Mr. and Mrs. Fuller for three years, then was their tweeny for another year before Mr. Fuller fell sick and Mrs. Fuller had to dismiss half the staff." She struggled to meet his gaze, pale gray eyes filled with anxiety, her hands tightly knotted before her to keep from fidgeting. Her thoughts only revealed how often she had been told not to fidget in the past, and her desperation to impress him.

"And then?" Edward asked, his tone light.

"The Fuller's cook helped me find a place at the Driscolls." She bit her lip as her mind briefly betrayed a dart of resentment that her mistress had been of no assistance in this search for new employment. "I was a kitchen maid for the Driscolls but worked as a housemaid abovestairs when…well, when they needed the help." An image danced through her mind, a brief wisp of a thought that she swiftly pushed away—a freckled girl, thin and young and not unlike herself, but for the swell of her belly, her cheeks streaked with tears.

"So you may be able to work above as well as below stairs?" Edward asked, his features betraying no emotion.

"Of course, sir," she eagerly responded, her thoughts only of the reference she'd obtain that might get her out of kitchen duties forever.

It was far more difficult finding a manservant among the applicants whose mind didn't immediately turn to thoughts of curiosity or greed upon ducking into the servants' dining hall and finding Edward's elegant figure reclining in one of the uncomfortable chairs. Some were so distracted by the richness of his clothes and the ivory of his skin that they mistakenly assumed he was such a gentleman, he would certainly present no threat if they were to imbibe of the house wine or stow away the silver. A few men had these initial thoughts but, upon closer inspection, sensed something menacing and dangerous in their potential employer—though they could not have indicated what had given this impression had Edward been unwise enough to ask.

Edward was beginning to believe finding an honest manservant would not be possible when a burly figure brushed past the last applicant, his freckled features smiling and open as he clutched his hat in his hands. "Sorry to be so late, sir, but I only saw notice of the position a moment ago." His accent betrayed a heavy brogue, his blue eyes darting back to the figure of the man who had just departed. "Please tell me it's still available," he pled as his gaze returned to Edward.

"It is," Edward admitted, unable to conceal the wariness from his gaze as he listened for the young man's thoughts. He was enormous, easily several inches taller than Edward, his broad shoulders taking up the width of the doorway in which he stood. "And your name?"

"Emmett," the young man smiled, striding forward with an ungloved hand thrust in Edward's direction. "Emmett McCarty." His Scottish accent was so strong, that had Edward not spent time in Edinburgh, he might not have fully understood him. What was more, it was apparent from the young man's thoughts that he was doing his best to sound like an Englishman.

"You're Scottish," Edward pointed out the obvious.

"Aye—yes, I am," Emmett admitted, blue eyes falling to the hat in his hands. "Though it's been a full season since I left Galashiels." Smoking mills flashed through Emmett's mind as he spoke, hulking buildings that hugged riverbanks that had once been idyllic and unpolluted, the sky gray with coal smoke. "I was a footman for the Gavin family at Langton," he straightened as he said the words, his tone even now conveying a degree of respect for the family to whom he'd been in service. "Miss Gavin's mother was Lady Gavin, daughter to the Earl of Lauderdale," he added, clearly hoping these aristocratic connections would weigh in his favor in Edward's estimation.

"How very nice for her," Edward replied, but no flash of temper crossed Emmett's freckled features in response to the wry words. Instead, he momentarily appeared crestfallen before his shoulders straightened, his voice resolved.

"I know folks are leery of hiring a Scotsman, but I vow, sir, I tell you I'm no Catholic—nor Stuart sympathizer."

A slew of images whirled through his head as he spoke, the rapidity and confusion of them likely due to the passion he felt as he spoke: the half-dozen other houses at which he had applied for positions but been met with only derision and rude dismissal; the smoking mills that had sprung up along the River Tweed, a blight on the land where his family had lived for generations; the coughing, pale features of a young man who bore an eerie resemblance to Emmett but for the wasted, drawn nature of his countenance. "Go, Em," the man rasped hoarsely, "Go and find your fortune…" A ragged cough broke into the command before he spoke again, "For 'tis anywhere but here."

"My wife is Catholic," Edward dipped his chin as he spoke, regarding Emmett with a considering gaze. "Though I doubt she has much of an opinion on any Stuart claimants to the throne."

"Oh, I'm begging your pardon, sir," Emmett apologized abjectly, eyes wide with horror as he mentally berated himself for his gaffe. He was certain he had lost any hope of finding a position and was bracing himself for beginning his search anew.

"I take no offense," Edward gestured negligently, lips twisting with the faintest hint of cynicism. He had long ago ceased having any religious leanings, and had always marveled that Carlisle could maintain his faith given the reality of what they were. "But tell me—what brought you to leave the Gavin family and come to England?"

Emmett's gaze fell, but not before Edward saw a flash of surprise followed by a dart of anxiety in his open, guileless features. For he could not hide his shock that there remained a chance he might still be offered the position, and he seemed to sense that while logic demanded he prevaricate and hide the true reason for his flight from Scotland—that there was something unusual in the gentleman before him that demanded the truth. And besides, Emmett thought as his lips twisted with wry self-regard, he had never had any success with dishonesty in the past.

"There was some trouble with Miss Gavin's nephew," Emmett slowly admitted as his gaze rose from the hat in his hands.

Edward simply lifted a brow though he could easily discern from Emmett's thoughts exactly what had occurred. Like his broad, pale face, his thoughts were straightforward, hiding little.

Miss Gavin's nephew, like many members of the minor gentry, was filled with an unworthy amount of self-importance. In Emmett's thoughts, the fine gentleman was obsequious with his aunts, but haughty and dismissive with the servants.

"He was disrespectful to one of the girls," Emmett added as his gaze fell again—though it was not embarrassment or regret that sent his eyes to the ground. It was the expectation that this would truly earn him a dismissal from the house, and a return to his search for a position.

"Was she your sweetheart?" Edward asked, a faint frown crossing his brow.

"Ach, no, sir!" Emmett exclaimed. "An upper housemaid—I did no more than sit at the same table with her for meals." The girl flashed through Emmett's mind, smiling but well aware of her place. "I swear she didn't invite Mr. Maitland's favors—whatever he might have said," Emmett added darkly.

"She was fired," Edward clarified.

"Aye, sir," Emmett nodded. "I know I should have let it rest…" But his mind betrayed only a sense of satisfaction as he recalled driving a broad fist in the nephew's face when he'd come upon him in a back corridor, his arms around the resisting figure of a housemaid.

"Say no more," Edward lifted a hand as he tilted his head with understanding. It had not occurred to him that the servants of the household might provide additional protection should Lawrence Eldritch or Captain Hale somehow manage to appear upon his doorstep, but he was filled with an odd sense of satisfaction by the idea of Emmett's massive figure answering the door. Any caller would think twice upon encountering the enormous Scotsman. "How soon can you start?"

In the days that followed, Isabella struggled to accustom herself to sharing a house with servants with whom she had not spent the entirety of her life, alternating between a formality that felt awkward and forced, and a familiarity that caused nearly as much discomfiture. She felt a twinge of relief that she rarely glimpsed the housemaid, who, with the manservant's help, had uncovered the furniture in the vast majority of the house and set about cleaning the rooms before Isabella rose in the morning.

But it was impossible to avoid interacting with McCarty, the enormous Scotsman who served at table, answered the door, and supervised the other servants. While Edward sometimes shared meals with her if only to give the appearance that he ate, she was sometimes alone with the massive footman when he appeared from belowstairs with serving dishes filled with delicious food. He was the one who appeared when she could bear it no longer and would ring the bell for a fire to be lit after night had fallen, and, lit the candles when the room became dark. Though he wore the benignly solicitous expression that was to be expected of anyone in service, Isabella could sense a smile was never far from his lips, his blue eyes bright as he went about his duties.

They had not been in London a sennight when McCarty appeared in the library shortly after a knock sounded upon the front door, disrupting the quiet calm of the afternoon with a soft cough.

Isabella looked up with surprise from the book she'd been reading, so absorbed in the world created by the writer that she had not registered the door opening, or his feet upon the carpet.

"Yes, McCarty?" Edward asked. He had been occupied with writing a letter and now slid the missive beneath the blotter.

"A delivery, Sir," McCarty respectfully bowed. "Courtesy of Madame Desjardins."

Edward's smile was broad as he turned to Isabella. "Ah, yes, as promised."

"Has it been three days?" Isabella replied, shaking her head. Though she had yet to step foot outside the house on Half Moon Street, she felt as if she had been transported to another world in London. The rich surroundings, nearly invisible and unrelentingly docile staff, and Edward's sweet companionship could not be more different than what she had known in Cornwall.

"Thank you, McCarty, we'll be there directly." The footman bowed and turned sharply on his heel.

Edward rose as the door closed behind the manservant, crossing to her side in the blink of an eye and drawing her to her feet with gentle hands. "Are you ready, my dear?"

Isabella shook her head, still struggling to reconcile that the appointed time had passed and not only were her surroundings so utterly transformed, but so would be her very person. "I—I am not certain," she replied haltingly. She knew she should be grateful for Edward's generosity, but she could not help thinking of what she had left behind.

But when she saw him swallow, a fleeting expression of disappointment crossing his features, she knew she had misunderstood his question. Her grip tightened around his cool hands, her voice gentle as she explained, "I know it odd, but it will be as if I am leaving every part of me behind when I finally discard these old gowns," she glanced down to the worn fabric adorning her figure. "Of that I do not feel certain." His dark head lifted, his gaze bright as he realized he had mistaken her meaning. "But that is not what you meant to ask," she smiled as she returned his gaze.

"I wished to ask if you are ready to be wed," Edward replied, his voice soft yet riddled with intensity. "I found a vicar willing to take a…handsome fee to perform the service," he explained. "Which has happily coincided with this delivery." He paused as he saw her smile falter, listening to the speeding pace of her heart with a concern he struggled to conceal.

But Isabella swallowed and her smile returned—though her heart still fluttered with some emotion he could not bring himself to ask her to identify. "Yes, Edward," she replied. "I am ready."


	29. Deserve You

_Thank you for all of the reviews - and thank you for taking the time to read._

* * *

><p><em>That marriage is the highest consideration which the law knows. And this, my sweet bride, has made you mine, and me yours; and you have the best claim in the world to share my fortune with me. But, set that consideration aside, what is the obligation you have to me? Your mind is pure as that of an angel, and as much transcends mine. Your wit, and your judgment, to make you no compliment, are more than equal to mine: You have all the graces that education can give a woman, improved by a genius which makes those graces natural to you. You have a sweetness of temper, and a noble sincerity, beyond all comparison; and in the beauty of your person, you excel all the ladies I ever saw. Where then, my dearest, is the obligation, if not on my side to you?—But, to avoid these comparisons, let us talk of nothing henceforth but equality; although, if the riches of your mind, and your unblemished virtue, be set against my fortune, (which is but an accidental good, as I may call it, and all I have to boast of,) the condescension will be yours; and I shall not think I can possibly deserve you, till, after your sweet example, my future life shall become nearly as blameless as yours.<em>

_Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded  
><em>_Samuel Richardson_

**twenty-nine**

The streets grew increasingly narrow as the hackney cab wound east, the dirty grey of the surrounding buildings a stark contrast to the white columns and pediments of Mayfair. These buildings were narrow, too, often only two windows in width—though the windows were so draped with garments swinging from lines strung overhead that it was difficult to discern the opening within the drab brick. Isabella wondered that the clothes could remain clean given the sooty air, the smell of coal heavy here and unmistakably mixed with manure.

Hawkers passed with grimly determined expressions, dodging the wheels of the cab as though accustomed to navigating these narrow, winding lanes with vehicles rattling by. Children scurried past with greater disregard for the carriage, their lean features often smudged with dirt, feet bare as they dodged the horses' hooves.

Isabella had felt extraordinarily fine after donning her new gown, but she felt the richness of her garb even more fully in these impoverished surroundings. Her gloved hands plucked at the soft muslin of her afternoon dress, her gaze falling from the window of the cab to her lap. The gloves were the softest leather, the backs stitched with decorative hatch marks in dove colored embroidery; the edge of the gloves was met by the lace at her sleeves, the skin of her wrists just visible through the open weave. The lace was finer than any she had seen in Mousehole, and edged the neckline of the afternoon dress as well as the hem. Embroidery in the palest of blues mimicked the placement of the lace, so expertly stitched that she had first thought it to be a print upon the soft muslin fabric. Unlike the lace, the embroidery also flowed down the center front of the gown, stopping short of the high waistline.

Her gaze rose again to the window as the screech of a child caught her attention. The hackney driver swore and tugged at the reins, the cab slowing briefly before the horses began to regain their pace. The child, likely no older than eight or nine years of age, scrambled into view and paused long enough to swear in return at the driver, before swiftly scampering away as the whip cracked overhead.

"Begging your pardons!" The driver called in the general direction of the cab. But Isabella was recovering from her surprise to find herself seized by giggles, glancing to Edward with embarrassment at her reaction.

"I know—that is, I shouldn't—" she gasped as she bit back a shocked laugh, lifting a hand to cover her lips.

But Edward was smiling in return, his eyes lifting to the sky with an expression of feigned exasperation. "I suppose I should have expected such unseemliness, bringing you to Whitechapel." His shoulders rose and fell, "But I do feel confident no one shall track our visit to the priest here, nor find a record of our marriage on his books."

Isabella nodded, her humor subsiding. Moments later, the cab drew to a halt before a narrow shop that appeared to sell leather goods, freshly tanned hides piled before the open windows, bins of gloves and shoe soles behind the counter. The moment Edward stepped down from the cab, urchins began to gather around, jockeying for coins or offering to sell him some trifle; before he could respond, the crack of the whip snapped through the air, a threatening sound that sent the children scampering. Isabella could only hope it was not a threat the driver truly intended.

But Edward was reaching towards her and distracting her from this worry, his gloved hand extended, waiting for her to alight. She paused only a moment to straighten the shawl over her shoulders and to draw the veil stitched to the brim of her bonnet to her chin; it had been Edward's suggestion to add the lace to the few hats Madame Desjardins had delivered as another means of concealing her identity—though he assured her he had yet to encounter any evidence Captain Hale or Lawrence Eldritch had made it as far as the capital.

As she took his hand and stepped from the cab, she could not help the bright smile that began to form upon her lips, for her heart was suddenly full of anticipation. Perhaps she had been too distracted by the sights of London as the cab wound towards the east end, or too nervous in her first venture from the house since their arrival to absorb the magnitude of the commitment she was set to make. But now that they stood upon this narrow street, despite the drab buildings, bedraggled children, and pungent smells, she could feel nothing but excitement and joy.

Edward squeezed her hand, which trembled with the strength of her emotion, as they ducked into the shop. He nodded to the tradesman behind the counter before opening an interior door. "Mind your step," he cautioned as he led the way up a black staircase, the walls naked of any sconces or other sources of light.

Isabella's hand tightened around Edward's own, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely heed the creaking of the stairs. She nearly stumbled into him as they reached a landing, then shook her head as he opened a door she could not see, her vision so abruptly filled with light that she was temporarily blinded by the brightness emitting from within.

"Mr. Maçon, how good to see you," an amiable voice cried. It was only as Isabella's eyes began to adjust to the light that she realized it was the priest, his cassock worn but clean, the buttons straining at his full belly.

"And you, Father," Edward replied. Isabella began to realize that the small rooms above the shop were not extraordinarily bright; it was simply that the staircase from which they'd emerged was so dark, that the single unadorned window looking over the street and few sputtering candles appeared brilliant by comparison.

"And this is your bride," the priest asked with a wide smile, his dark eyes landing upon Isabella's figure.

She curtsied as she extended a hand, which he took and bowed over in respectful greeting. Her smile faltered as she detected the unmistakably heavy scent of wine that hung over him, and as he stepped back, she glimpsed several empty bottles upon a table in the far corner.

But there was no slur to his voice, nor uncertainty to his step as he led them to a table before the window. "If you please." She saw that it presumably served as the altar; there was a crucifix surrounded by a multitude of candles, a simple tabernacle, a pewter chalice, and a small statue roughly carved to resemble a winged angel. The priest then brightly asked if they were ready for him to perform the service.

"Never more so," Edward replied with a faint smile. Isabella nodded in kind as she lifted the veil, gaining a better sight of the small rooms. Through a far door she glimpsed a narrow bed and night stand piled with a leaning stack of books; more books were stacked around the room in which they stood, heaped even beneath the long table which served as the altar.

With little ceremony, the priest took a well-thumbed bible from the table and began the service, his voice and features reflecting the solemnity of the event despite the dilapidated surroundings. Isabella knew she might balk or feel a degree of mortification at the circumstances—that if she had a stronger sense of delicacy, she would object to the manner in which her marriage was taking place.

Only when Edward took her hands and drew the gloves from her fingers, his cold skin flush against her own, she could feel nothing but happiness at the thought of being bonded to him. As her gaze met his own and she saw the same joy evident in his countenance, she began to tremble with the force of her emotion. No rude street urchins, wine-soaked priest, or impoverished setting could strip her of the near-euphoria she felt as she repeated the vows the priest bade her to speak.

The only occurrence that shook her from her heady bliss was the sensation of Edward's hands withdrawing from her own, her gaze reluctantly falling from his pale face to see him reaching into his waistcoat pocket. Her brow furrowed with confusion, which didn't subside until he began to slide a ring over her finger, her lips parting as she found her gaze caught upon the number of stones set in the band. She barely discerned his voice repeating the vows she had just spoken; though she knew she shouldn't be surprised by this extravagance, it took her several seconds to drag her gaze from the band heavy around her finger, eyes wide and shining with tears when they returned to his.

She discerned little else of the service, reluctantly taking her eyes from Edward's countenance only to sign the registry the priest gestured to upon the makeshift altar. Her hand trembled as she took the dull quill and scratched her name upon the yellowed page, watching with a sense of unreality as Edward gracefully added his name next to her own.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Maçon," the priest smiled as he closed his bible.

"Thank you for your services, Father," Edward replied with a half-smile of his own. "As promised," he added, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a small pouch. Isabella heard the clink of coins as he pressed it into the priest's hand.

Then, with a few additional bows and nods, they were through the door and down the dark, narrow staircase, before emerging into the shop belowstairs. Edward moved swiftly to the door and the waiting hackney cab, only speaking once they were moving at swift clip down the crowded street.

"I spoke to the cook regarding the wedding breakfast," Edward confessed, loosening his grip around her palm only to thread his fingers through her own. "I hope you shall indulge me once more today."

Isabella, who was breathless from the speed with which they'd departed the rooms in Whitechapel, nodded before adding, "But of course."

She had not thought to request anything specific given she'd had such little notice the wedding was to take place. While she had known for some time of Edward's intentions, she had not been privy to the specifics of his plans until Madame Desjardins delivered her new wardrobe. Given they did not wish to admit to the servants their unwed status, and that the largely Anglican staff were unlikely to recognize the service that had just been administered as legitimate, Isabella had remained silent on the matter; Edward had only spoken obliquely to McCarty when they had left the house on Half-Moon Lane that morning, drawing on his gloves and negligently stating, "We've an errand but shall return in time for our midday meal."

"I only told her I would like something a bit richer, and to purchase a bottle of claret to accompany the meal."

Isabella was therefore unsurprised when they returned to the house and found the table spread with a meal richer than any she had yet enjoyed, McCarty respectfully bowing from the room at Edward's dismissal. She soon found, however, that she had little appetite. For Edward's gaze was so hooded and intense, she found herself undeniably flustered, her cheeks warm, her hands trembling.

Her gaze repeatedly took refuge in the plate of food before her, pushing the roasted vegetables and slivers of rabbit meat around the porcelain surface without lifting any of the fragrant food to her lips.

"I can scarcely believe this moment to be true," Edward's quiet voice demanded her attention. He did not feign any interest in his food, but he toyed with the glass of wine McCarty had poured, the crystal stem twirling in his hand. "That you are my wife."

There was a faint note of disbelief in the words and Isabella could not help her tentative smile in response. "Our feeling is one and the same," she admitted.

"But you are anxious," Edward's tone was not harsh but the blunt truth of the words sent her gaze back to her plate, the faint flush in her cheeks intensifying.

"I know you are innocent," Edward began to add, seeking to reassure her.

But Isabella cut off his words, boldly stating, "I was raised in the country, Edward." She dragged her gaze from her plate, forcing herself to look him in the eye. "I know that foals, calves and lambs don't appear in spring by magic."

A dart of surprise crossed Edward's dark gaze before a sly smile spread across his lips. "Very well, then." He paused, his eyes glittering. "We shall retire directly after dessert."

Isabella's boldness immediately faded, her mouth gaping, "But it is midday, Edward!"

"You object?" he asked, his tone indicating he knew very well she would not, hesitating in a half-risen pose in his chair.

"I—well, no—but…the servants," she began to garble out.

Edward rose fully and moved to the bell, "The servants?" he asked, dubious. "You care a whit for their sensibilities?" He tugged the bell pull in a smooth motion before returning to his chair. "You surprise me, Madame Maçon." His use of her formal name took her back to a moment she had not thought about in some time, remembering the sensation of her body chilled and soaked as she clung to his shoulders, frightened and disoriented by abilities she had never witnessed him use, leaping onto rooftops and crossing mossy shingles with little regard for the dizzying height they had reached.

_Was I not 'Edward' only moments ago?_

She had been caught off guard by his levity given she had only just escaped such dangers that she had scarcely believed herself to be alive.

_Oh, I understand all too well. Manners are often forgotten in moments of high emotion._

"You are teasing me," she chided him. She could feel the lingering warmth in her face and hoped her cheeks were not excessively pink.

"Mayhap," Edward grinned as he lifted his wine glass, studying the liquid in the light. He stopped short of bringing the beverage to his lips, inhaling the scent of the claret and thinking back to when he'd last been able to enjoy the taste.

"You cannot expect I should be entirely without a sense of propriety, Edward," she spoke calmly before forcing herself to sample a bite of rabbit.

Edward did not reply for several seconds, uncertain of how to express that he never quite knew what to expect with her. In moments when she should be most panicked and insensible, she displayed fortitude and grace; when he expected her to balk and find every reason to protest, she moved forward, calm and unflappable. He continued to be astonished that though she knew the truth of his nature now, her affection for him was unmoved.

"I have never forgotten your honor," Edward finally admitted, lifting hooded eyes to regard the pale oval of her face with a steady gaze. She was beautiful in her new gown, her dark hair loosely pinned at her nape, cheeks faintly flushed with roses. "That is why I have waited until this moment to be alone with you."

McCarty appeared at that moment in the doorway of the dining room. "You rang, sir?"

"More claret, McCarty, if you please."

Isabella found herself drinking the wine with a speed she knew was unwise given her lack of familiarity with the drink…but she could not calm herself and desperately hoped the alcohol might, her hands trembling, her heart racing. For they had so often been alone, days and nights spent in only one another's company, confined in carriages and lonely inns. Though there had been moments when he had forgotten himself, taking her in his arms, his touch impassioned and tender, he had always been the one to break away, ever respectful…though her circumstances no longer demanded he treat her so.

When she had emptied her glass for the third time, Edward rose from his seat and crossed to her side, gently taking her hand. "I suspect you have no appetite for dessert."

Though she could not lift her gaze, she nodded silently, rising and obediently following him from the room. She remained silent, her heart in her throat, watching her slippers peek from beneath the hem of her gown with decided fascination as they crossed the corridor and climbed the stairs to the upper floor.

It was only when Edward firmly shut the bedchamber door behind him that her gaze finally lifted, dark eyes wide, lips parted and dry. The intensity of his black gaze was pronounced, his eyes fixed upon her flushed features as he lifted a pale hand to his cravat and tugged at the knotted fabric, dragging it from his neck. She did not move as he unbuttoned his jacket and waistcoat, shrugging from the garments with graceful negligence, heedless of the clothes falling to the floor.

Without his outer garments or cravat, the neck of his shirt gaped, revealing an expanse of chest and highlighting the broadness of his shoulders. Isabella found she could not breathe as he slowly paced towards her, wondering if the animals he stalked were similarly frozen once they realized they were being pursued.

"Edward," she whispered as his arms circled her waist, his breath cool against her cheeks.

It was only then that he hesitated, a concerned frown crossing his brow. "Do you fear me?" The words were weighted, willing to accept nothing but honesty.

Isabella shook her head, wrapping arms that trembled around his neck. "I do not fear you," she softly answered. "My husband."

His lips fells to her own, ravishing in their intensity. She did not hesitate in responding, returning his kiss as fiercely as she dared, certain her lips would be bruised upon the morrow. But soon she had no concern for the morrow, or the day, or the hour, for her world was him—his hands, his lips, the slick dart of his tongue across her throat and collar bones, the chill of his skin once he'd freed her from her gown.

A wordless sound of protest burst past her lips when he abruptly broke away, the line between her brows sharp as he spun her around.

"Your stays," he muttered, dragging at the laces with hands so insistent she was jerked off her toes by the rough motion, rocking towards him.

Isabella could not wait for him to fully unlace the undergarment, dragging the loosened shell of linen and whalebone over her head and turning on her heel to face him.

"Isabella," he groaned, overcome by her eagerness, by the scent of her, by the warmth of her skin.

She gasped with surprise as he abruptly lifted her into his arms and crossed the short distance to the bed, gently lowering her to the counterpane before straightening to his full height.

Edward knew she had no sense of how appealing she appeared, her expression conveying a mix if shyness and abandonment—though, as ever, her thoughts were utterly silent to him. Garbed in only her shift and petticoat, her chestnut hair tousled and half-tumbled about her shoulders, lips bright as roses, cheeks and throat flushed, she was a siren, tempting him to crash against the shore. "You are so beautiful," he whispered.

Isabella's flush intensified at his words, watching with shy eyes as he kicked off his boots and dragged his shirt over his head before joining her on the bed. "As are you," she replied, a sense of satisfaction rushing through her veins as his pupils dilated at her words. A wolfish smile slowly crossed his lips before his mouth returned to her own.

Edward's only desire was to savor her, longing to feel every inch of her silken skin, to mark in his memory the sensation of her arms around his neck, his shoulders, nails scrabbling against him as his mouth found the peak of her nipple through the thin lawn of her shift.

"Edward!" she cried, her voice a plea.

"Isabella," he responded, lips moving against the sensitive pink nub.

She could not think, could not breathe, longing to tear the remaining clothes from her skin if it meant she could be closer to him. His soft laugh as she dragged at the offending garments could not embarrass her, brown eyes pleading as she gazed up at him. "How can you bear it?" she asked.

Edward shook his head, shifting his weight and covering her hands where they rested at the ties of her petticoat. "I have had a hundred years without you," he confessed, untangling the ties where her shaking fingers could not find purchase. "All of this," his lips fell to her own in a single kiss before he dragged at the skirt, pulling it from her legs. "Every moment," he added, kissing her again before his hands fell to the hem of her shift, pausing only a moment to allow her to nod in acquiescence. "Every moment is a gift."

"Oh, Edward," she could not help the sudden tears in her voice. For though she had known he must love her, though she felt no lack of confidence after the terrible vision she had suffered of her life without him, it was a wonder to hear him speak words so devoted.

"You…this," Edward's lips were upon her own, kissing her gently, drifting to her throat, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her. "It is all a gift." As he sank against her, the sensation of her bare skin against his own was fuel to a fire of which he had foolishly thought himself in control. The groan that escaped his lips was nearly a growl, his hips pulsing against the juncture of her thighs though he had told himself he would take his time, he would be patient and gentle—for though she was eager, he knew she was innocent and he had no wish to frighten her.

"Edward!" she cried, for the pressure was nearly unbearable, the heat in her belly unlike any she had ever known. She grasped his arms, his shoulders, fisting her hands in his hair, longing for some end to the torment.

His lips crashed to her own, his hands at her breasts, cupping the soft flesh, finger tips dragging over the sensitive tips. "Edward…" she moaned against his mouth, her hips jerking against his own.

He groaned in response, lips dragging across her cheek to find her ear, sucking at the soft lobe as his hands shifted lower, savoring the flare of her hips, the softness of her thighs…before shifting between them, his fingers light as he brushed against the damp lips of her sex. "Oh, Isabella, how you are ready for me."

She could only pant in response, eyes wide and blind as he grew more bold, cupping her most intimate flesh, fingers fluttering against her. When he applied more pressure, her body nearly sprang from the bed, her back arching as a cry broke from her throat. He repeated the motion and Isabella could not help the string of garbled noises that passed her lips, her fingers bearing down around his arms with such strength that she was certain she would have left bruises upon anyone else.

But Edward was relentless, brushing that tender spot again and again, until she was nearly sobbing in his arms, face buried in his neck, struggling for breath. Then and only then did he drag his breeches from his legs, the pressure of his bare hips against her own only adding to the sense of urgency she felt.

"Edward," she begged. "Please!"

His hands rose to her cheeks, fingers firm against her jaw. She met his gaze, chocolate eyes filled with want and desperation, gasping and breathless. The pressure returned, and she shook her head, beyond tormented by the sensation. "Edward, Edward," his name was a litany, uttered between panting breaths. "Please, I cannot bear it!"

The pressure grew, fuller and more urgent. A moan pushed past her lips as he slid deeper, the sensation so foreign and pleasurable that she felt nearly faint.

Her ribs pushed rhythmically against his own, her breathing rapid and ragged. It was only then that she realized he was unmoving, his hips flush against her own, their bodies joined. She opened her eyes to find him staring down at her with fierce concentration, dark eyes narrow, jaw clenched as he struggled to give her time, to allow her to grow accustomed to the sensation of him.

When she shifted her hips, his eyes sank shut and a tortured groan escaped his lips. She shifted again, and he choked out her name. "Isabella!" Her breathlessness returned, excited she could drive him wild, too. When he began to withdraw, her hands instinctively pressed against his back, failing to understand his intention…before her eyes sank shut at the delicious friction. He sank forward again, tearing a cry from her throat.

Isabella could bear it no longer, writhing beneath him, longing for the tormenting pleasure to reach its peak. Edward moved in turn, hips rising and falling, hands fisting in the counterpane beneath their bodies, lips buried against her throat. Isabella was certain she had caught fire, head tossing against the pillows as keening cries broke past her lips.

When the pleasure began to approach pain, her body slick with sweat, Edward's hips began to move faster, driving her to near madness. "Edward!" she screamed as every muscle in her body tensed, her figure rigid as a board—before she fell completely limp, as if the ocean had washed over her, crashing her spent figure to the ground.

He had stilled as she climaxed, his breath cool against her throat, his lips buried in the softness of her hair. "My Isabella," he murmured when her breathing grew less ragged, his voice soft in her ear. "My wife," he whispered, drawing away before his hips slowly sank forward again, stoking the fire at her core. "My love."

They did not emerge from the bedchamber for the remainder of the day though the sun was still high in the sky. All was skin against skin, sighs and whispers, gentle caresses that grew fierce, and breathless panting for release.

Edward only rose when he realized how much time had passed since Isabella had last properly eaten, reluctantly pulling himself from the sheets and dragging on his breeches and shirt. The sky had just begun to darken with dusk but he waved away her suggestion of a candle before setting out for the kitchen.

But she had barely sampled from the plate of cold meats and cheeses he'd returned with before his hands were drifting over her shoulders, fingers trailing through her hair, a kiss landing upon her bare shoulder as she endeavored to hold the sheet to her bare breasts and eat.

"Edward," she laughed. "You are the one who insisted I have a bit of supper!"

"Yes, yes," he murmured, withdrawing only to the edge of the bed, one hand lingering upon the curve of her ankle beneath the counterpane. His grin held a hint of mischief, "You are a tempting thing, my love."

Isabella blushed, her gaze falling to the plate balanced upon her lap.

"Perhaps I might show you something of London in the coming days," he began, trailing a cool finger along her calf.

After swallowing the bite of cheese she had in her mouth, Isabella asked with a furrowed expression, "Do you think it safe?"

"I have no reason to suspect Captain Hale or any of the Eldritch family has made it as far as London. I have made inquiries and checked myself at the major inns leading into town." Isabella had suspected that this was how he spent a good portion of his time in the evenings, in addition to pursuing the wild creatures and livestock that she knew made up his diet.

"If it fills you with any trepidation, we can remain at the house until Carlisle is ready for our arrival in Oxford."

"No!" Isabella exclaimed, "I am eager to see the city so long as you think it safe."

"Then it is settled," Edward replied. "Perhaps we can see something of Hyde Park tomorrow—and I shall endeavor to think of some amusement for the evening." His fingers encircled her ankle, "As for this evening…"

Isabella's cheeks flushed, her chin dipping as she regarded him with dark, eager eyes.

She woke the following morning feeling a languid soreness in her very bones, stretching against the tangle of sheets. She thrust a hand in the absolute snarl of her hair, biting back a smile at the thought of the exertions that had brought about her decidedly undone appearance.

"Good morning, ma'am!" a bright voice called, so startling Isabella that she gasped and shot upright, the sheet clutched to her bare chest.

"Oh, do pardon me, ma'am," the young girl began to apologize, her blue eyes contrite. "I thought I heard you stirring and was certain you were awake."

"I am, I am," Isabella replied, unable to help the frown forming upon her brow.

"I'm Mallory, ma'am," the girl smiled, swiftly dipping into a curtsy. "Laura Mallory." She smiled brightly, revealing teeth that were charmingly crooked. "Master hired me the day before last but I wasn't able to leave my current place until after supper yesterday." She bent, returning to the task of picking up the clothes that had been left on the floor the prior night. Isabella could see pale blond hair tucked beneath her simple cap, her figure thin and angular as she straightened to her full height. "I've fetched fresh water for your pitcher—or I can work with the housemaid to draw a full bath if you'd like."

"Oh, no—" Isabella began, not wishing to set the girl to such hard work on her first day, but a smooth voice interrupted her before she could complete the thought.

"I see you've met your new maid," Edward announced as he opened the bedchamber door and sauntered into the room. Mallory sank into a swift curtsy, her pale cheeks growing slightly pink as her gaze fell to the rich carpets beneath her feet.

"Yes, I have," Isabella smiled, dragging her curious gaze from the young girl's blushing features. She thought to herself that she would ask he give her more notice in the future, but as her eyes fell to the ring glinting from her finger she knew this situation was no different; Edward had thought to surprise her with some new extravagance and she could not fault him for it.

Lifting her gaze, she asked with a small smile, "If you'll give me a moment, I would be happy to accompany you to the park—if you are still intent upon going." He wore boots and carried a top hat in his hands, so she was certain his intentions hadn't changed.

"But of course, my dear," Edward bowed deeply, though he kept his gaze lifted, black eyes regarding her with a rakish gleam. "I will wait for you in the library."

Isabella was too modest to wash with her new lady's maid present, but she was grateful for Mallory's assistance in lacing her into her stays, helping her select a walking gown, and combing the snarls from her hair before neatly pinning it into a knot at her crown. "Thank you very much," she spoke sincerely as she took the bonnet and gloves Mallory had fetched from the clothes press.

"You're very welcome, ma'am," Mallory curtsied with a bright smile, crooked teeth flashing.

The frank admiration in Edward's gaze when Isabella found him belowstairs sent roses to her cheeks—for she sensed something more to the expression now that they had known one another so intimately.

"You are a beauty," Edward murmured as he took her hand and pressed his lips to her cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered in reply, shyly withdrawing her hand and pretending great focus in setting her bonnet upon her hair and tying the ribbons beneath her chin.

"You are not discomfited in my presence now, I pray?" he asked, his lips near her ear. "You should know I have no intention of returning to the restraint I demonstrated prior to our wedding, Madame Maçon."

Isabella's cheeks only grew brighter, her eyes wide as she drew back to meet his gaze. "You are in a devilish mood, are you not!?" she exclaimed.

Edward's teeth gleamed as he lifted gloved hands to draw the veil from the brim of her bonnet to her chin. "You haven't the least idea."

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and nodded toward the door. With a small laugh, she gestured for him to lead the way.


	30. Safe

_Happy Saturday! A few comments - thank you to the reader who caught that Sheil was in a morning dress to go to church. You're absolutely correct that morning dresses were primarily worn at home & weren't intended to be seen by anyone other than family & servants, typically. I'm afraid I've either avoided or hadn't thought about some of the other items noted in the last batch of reviews. Laundry appeared to be such a laborious task from everything I've read, that even though it might have been too daunting a task for Sheil and Mrs. Hammet to undertake alone, I didn't want to tackle Isabella trying to help them-even in her reduced circumstances! I briefly thought about relating the dustiness of Edward's clothes while traveling, but it likely got lost in various revisions. I also simply hadn't considered the issue of wearing a cap as a married woman-and what the servants might have thought to see Isabella with her hair uncovered. I do try to take authenticity as seriously as my own time and resources allow - so apologies if anyone is taken out of the story by incongruities!_

_One last note - while I'm not certain how unusual Sheil's name might have seemed at the time, I pretty much stole it from the book 'The Brontes Go To Woolworths.' One of my favorites though it's set in the early 1900s rather than the early 1800s._

_Thank you for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><em>"What then is the matter? Are they at last, not safe?"<em>

_Cecelia, or Memoirs of an Heiress  
>Fanny Burney<em>

**thirty**

Though the veil didn't completely obscure her features from view, Isabella was surprised to find herself relaxed and calm as they approached the green expanse of Hyde Park. Perhaps it was the summer sun, steady and free of clouds, casting a warm glow upon the city streets. Perhaps it was Edward's presence at her side, his half-smile mischievous as he tilted his head towards hers. Perhaps it was the security of the knowledge that they were together, and she could imagine nothing that could part them.

"You gave Mallory quite the suspicious glance," Edward commented, amusement apparent in his voice.

Isabella's eyes narrowed, for she was confident Edward knew very well what caused the maid's blushes and nervous fidgeting. "I cannot imagine how your character withstands the admiring thoughts you're able to discern." She kept her voice low, her tone admonishing and amused as she regarded him through the weave of the veil. "Though perhaps this is what you meant when you claimed to be so feckless—perhaps it is conceit that makes you a monster rather than any aspect of your physical nature."

Edward's laugh was surprised and delighted. "You dare to call me conceited?"

"You dare to deny it?" Isabella replied archly, brows lifting. "Do you deny the lady's maid you hired conceals thoughts of admiration for you?"

"I do not deny it," Edward admitted, pale features briefly subsiding into seriousness—before his mouth twisted as he added, "Of the applicants, she was alone in having no designs on the possessions of the house, nor was she concealing a past as a woman of ill-repute—nor was she lying when she named her references." Or at least, Edward thought, if she had been lying, she was incredibly skilled in imagining her falsehoods to be true. "It seemed a small flaw that she admires my appearance more than she ought."

"Then I will be certain to complain stridently of your faults while she is dressing my hair and lacing my stays," Isabella sniffed.

Edward's black gaze grew amused again. Though he knew she didn't harbor any true jealousy, he was curious as to her sincerity. "And what faults are these, may I ask?"

"So many ungentlemanly habits," Isabella began, swiftly thinking. "Getting so deep in your cups you fall asleep at the table, and grope for the maid, mistaking her for me." She bit back a laugh as his expression reflected a dart of surprise before his eyes narrowed at her teasing words. "Gnawing at your nails as if you haven't eaten in a fortnight, stomping about in boots covered in mud—and putting your feet upon the furniture!" Though she knew Edward's background was in trade, a century as a gentleman had left him with habits she knew to be fastidious.

"My nails!" Edward exclaimed in mock surprise. "Must I draw off my gloves to show you how manicured are my hands?"

"Likely cleaned only this morning," Isabella pursed her lips. "Don't allow me to begin on your inability to find the chamber—" But she ceased her raillery as they reached the park and her half-boots found the gravel of the raked path. It occurred to her that it had been several days since she had seen the green of the country—and even then, only from the window of a cab, her heart filled with worry and sadness for the life she had left behind. Once arrived to London, she had not dared depart the house, confined to the indoors in a manner she had never experienced at home. Further, the narrow street beyond the windows was naked of trees, shrubs, or flowering hedges—all was brick and stone, marble and glass.

Though Isabella knew the city still crowded close, she could almost think herself back in the country; green lawns spilled before her, rows of lindens and birches casting shade with boughs heavy and green with leaves. The whisper of the breeze in the branches above was achingly familiar; had it not been for the steady clop of horses' hooves, the creak of wagon wheels, and the quiet chatter of the gentry promenading and riding through the park, she might have been overcome by memories of Cornwall.

"I thought you might enjoy it here," Edward's quiet murmur brought her back to the present, to the life she led now that her home was lost to her.

Isabella turned to face him, certain he could see her overcome expression through the haze of the veil's lace. "Thank you," she spoke sincerely.

"There is no need to thank me," Edward answered, covering her hand where it rested upon his forearm, the motion one of reassurance and affection. "But come. Let us see the park."

As they proceeded down the gravel path, Edward quietly explained that the season was nearly at its end and much of the nobility had already retired to their estates, or toured down to Brighton for the summer. "What's more," he added as they reached Rotten Row and paused to observe a gentleman trot past on a finely muscled horse, "five o'clock is the preferred hour to see and be seen, so it is far too early for us to witness the park at its most crowded."

"Oh, I do not mind," Isabella exclaimed, "I far prefer it like this." A few young ladies proceeded past, a chaperone trailing in their wake, giggling beneath lacy parasols. Their gowns were finer than any Isabella had ever seen.

"Then we shall come again tomorrow," Edward replied. "As early as you please to avoid the crowds."

Isabella's smile reflected her pleasure at his promise, and he knew he would do anything to summon her joy—and how fortunate for him that her desires were so simple, a patch of green unmarred by the clamor of crowds.

Even so, he knew these joys were tinged with the lingering threat of retribution, that the trials that had sent her fleeing from her home were not permanently behind them. So it was with a wide smile he could barely restrain that Edward climbed the stairs to the upper floors of the house later that afternoon. Isabella had retired to her bedchamber to change, but Edward did not hesitate in knocking and immediately entering. His smile only grew more wolfish as she gasped and spun around, clutching a dressing gown to her chest. Mallory blushed and nearly stumbled as she bobbed up and down in a curtsey.

"You know you have no need for modesty with me," he said, waving the maid from the room. Only after the door had closed behind the thin blonde did he raise the letter he carried in his hand.

"You have quite the habit of surprising me unawares," Isabella's sigh was only half-serious, for it was a habit he had developed from their very first meeting.

"An ability only I seem to have," Edward smiled. "I bring good news and could not consider waiting."

"Patience is not your strong suit, is it?" Isabella asked with a smile as she laid the gown on the chair before the dressing table. She was somewhat proud that she did not balk at conducting this conversation in her shift and petticoat.

"No," Edward replied. "But please read for yourself," he handed her the letter. "I did not want to share the inquiries I was making should the responses be unfavorable."

Isabella swiftly scanned the letter, her forehead furrowing before her brows lifted with surprise. "You asked about the assizes."

"Under an assumed name," Edward clarified. "I asked my solicitor to forward the letter on behalf of a business associate who follows the assizes in the instance property disputes result in land available for purchase." He shrugged. "A typical inquiry asking for no detail other than the cases to be tried."

"Is it truly so surprising there should be no trial listed for James Eldritch's death?" Isabella swallowed as she spoke the words, blinking away the memory of his body crashing to the ground. "The supposed suspect," she grimaced, "is no where to be found."

"Continue reading," Edward urged. "The clerk in Penzance is voluble with local gossip. He said there is a chance a homicide may be tried, but only if the criminal can be found." Isabella did as he bade, turning over the page to continue reading.

"He thinks the chances are quite slim," she whispered, reading the words, "for the Justice of the Peace ceased searching some time ago, certain the murderer died under duress or while trying to escape the county…"

"And the victim's only surviving son has satisfied himself with posting notices of reward in local publications," Edward finished. "As I said, I did not wish to raise your hopes, but after failing to find either Captain Hale or any evidence of Lawrence Eldritch having pursued us past the county borders, I am fairly certain you are safe."

The relief that suffused Isabella's expression was absolute, her gasp one of surprise and near disbelief as she threw her arms around Edward. "I can barely allow myself to believe it to be true!"

Edward shook his head, his arms briefly tightening around her figure before releasing her. "You are safe for now, Madame Maçon." His voice briefly turned serious as he spoke, as if he would make the words true with the force of his will. Then, his tone lightened, "So now I must warn you that instead of reading this afternoon as you had likely planned, you will instead be preoccupied with deciding which evening gown to wear. Now that I am certain you are not at risk of discovery, I intend to indulge you as I had hoped to do when we first arrived to London."

Isabella could only laugh before asking him where he intended to take her. But though she queried, pestered, and finally begged, Edward would not reveal their destination. With a sigh, she later donned an evening gown of white sarsnet covered by an overlay of gold lace with Mallory's assistance. The maid expertly welded a set of curling tongs, and Isabella marveled to see her appearance so transformed in the looking glass of the dressing table. "If you'll allow me to filch a feather from your straw bonnet, ma'am…?" Mallory asked.

Isabella nodded, smiling as Mallory pinned the feather in place, the plume bobbing and waving with every movement of her head.

Edward expressed his enchantment when she joined him belowstairs, before ushering her into a waiting hackney. The streets were already dark, lamp light bathing the few passerby who lingered upon the streets in a yellow glow. Given the lateness of the hour, Isabella couldn't help her surprise when their cab began to slow within a mire of traffic, fine carriages, curricles and other vehicles jockeying to queue before the entrance of an enormous building blazing with light. "Edward," she asked, shaking her head with awe. "Where are we?"

"Covent Garden," he finally replied, "The Theatre Royal." The smile was apparent in his voice.

Once they were inside, Isabella found she could not be still, her gaze darting around the gilded theater, landing first upon balconies carved with ornate flourishes and cherubs, then the wide stage and heavy curtain of rich velvet, then the patrons slowly filling the boxes and seats, struggling to absorb the sight of so many finely dressed people. She was grateful when the theater darkened for she was not certain she could have dragged her gaze to the stage otherwise.

For his part, Edward barely attended the featured play, another interminable take on one of Shakespeare's tragedies, so captivated was he by her fascinated expression, gaze fixed and completely unmoving upon the actors on the stage. When she clapped her hands at the pantomime that followed, he might have thought his body pulsed with blood for the dart of joy that leapt in his chest.

The following day found them returned to Hyde Park, the hour so early that the paths and lanes were nearly empty of people. They strolled as far as the Serpentine, where a few nursemaids watched over their young charges, some of whom trailed wooden boats in the water. "How idyllic," Isabella breathed, beyond enchanted. Edward could only agree.

That evening found Edward requesting that she select another evening dress from those delivered by Madame Desjardins earlier that week. "Though you may first suspect that we are visiting another park, that is not the primary means of entertainment there." Isabella's eyes narrowed as he gave this oblique explanation as to their destination, but realized he was unlikely to offer further detail given the mischievous glint in his dark gaze.

When their hackney cab drew to a halt before high stone walls topped by fanciful Grecian statues, Isabella's expression reflected her confusion. She could see it was not a private house, for it was clear the trees beyond the walls were too plentiful for anything other than a large estate. What was more, the trees appeared to glow, as if filled with candles—though she knew such an idea was preposterous given the risk of fire. Her confusion grew as they stepped from the cab and she heard the distinct sound of voices, cutlery clattering against dishes, and the faint sound of music.

"Are we attending a private ball?" she asked, wondering who Edward trusted of his acquaintances besides Carlisle Cullen.

Edward shook his head as he took her hand. "No, this is a public venue," then, more precisely, "Vauxhall Gardens." His smile was broad, pleased as he saw her expression shift from one of confusion to fascination.

As they approached the gates, Isabella saw a small group of people queued before the entrance; some were dressed as finely as she and Edward, while others wore simpler garb, unadorned by trimmings and lace. Edward paid the entrance fee for them both before tucking her gloved hand in the crook of his forearm and leading the way into the pleasure gardens.

In a fashion similar to the prior evening, Isabella had no idea where to rest her gaze. The trees she had thought to be lit by candles were actually strung with lanterns; some featured glass in varying shades of violet and pink, giving a soft light that cast the features of the people about them into warm loveliness. As they proceeded down a wide promenade, she could not help her mouth gaping as they came upon an open Gothic theater filled with the musicians she had heard only faintly at the entrance. Obligingly, Edward paused, allowing her to absorb the structure before her, set as it was amidst the glowing trees.

After they had listened to the music for some time, Edward asked, "Would you care to eat?" He turned to gesture to the supper boxes behind them.

"Oh!" Isabella exclaimed, having failed to notice entirely the various people enjoying wine and food in the alcoves behind them. She hesitated, uncertain whether she'd be able to focus upon a meal with all of the various distractions of the gardens.

But at Edward's urging, they settled at one of the available tables and Isabella was soon acknowledging how much she was enjoying simply watching the parade of people passing by. A waiter in a blue jacket and breeches soon delivered plates of the standard fare, but she barely tasted the thinly sliced ham and wedges of soft cheese. She was far too absorbed in the mix of men and women mingling before her; some lingered before the orchestra, some bantered and chattered, obviously at ease and accustomed to the surroundings. Still others waved and flirted, so gregarious that Isabella could not help staring.

"You might avert your gaze," Edward quietly suggested. "Otherwise they are liable to notice you—and I would prefer we not draw their attention."

Isabella reluctantly dragged her eyes from the two women who nearly danced before her, so vivacious were their mannerisms and conversation. But it was not only their behavior which caught her attention for their gowns were more ostentatious than any other lady she had yet seen pass their table. One was garbed in lavender, the low neckline edged in scalloped lace, jewels dancing around her throat. The other wore a blue watered silk that shimmered in the lantern light, the puffed sleeves edged in gold braid.

"Are they actresses?" Isabella softly wondered aloud, thinking of the play they had seen the prior night, the bright costumes, the broad gestures.

"Of a sort," Edward's voice was wry. He hesitated but knew there was no sense in exercising delicacy after all they had been through. "They are courtesans."

Isabella's mouth gaped for a split second, her gaze darting back to the women before abruptly falling to her plate.

"Their gowns are finer than mine!" she finally whispered, cheeks flaming.

"The profession is perhaps more…rewarding than what women of a similar nature might earn in Penzance," Edward admitted. "But they have had a good deal to drink and are on the hunt for amusement; I would rather we not be the source of their entertainment."

Despite Edward's concern, the two courtesans were soon absorbed by the crowd. After confessing she could eat no more of the supper, they soon joined the melee, returning to the promenade and seeking out the notable sites of the garden. This included a fountain that had such a play of water and lights that Isabella was certain she could have lingered before the display for hours. Edward also pointed out several statues tucked amongst the hedges, while admitting that he had seen finer on the Continent. Isabella couldn't help the acceleration of her heart when they ducked down a path that seemed quite shadowed and dark in comparison to the brightly lit promenade.

She could hear giggles and squeals as they receded further into the darkness, and her eyes narrowed as she realized this was likely the purpose of these unlit paths. Before she could turn to teasingly accuse Edward of leading her astray, she felt the unmistakable weight of his arms around her waist, her words silenced by his lips.

Though she knew she should chide him for his disregard for propriety, she found she had no desire to do so as she returned his kiss. The pressure of her lips seemed to light a fire within Edward, his arms tightening around her waist, a groan sounding from his throat.

"Isabella," he murmured, hands rising to her shoulders, her throat, tracing the low neckline of her gown and smiling as he felt goose bumps trail in the wake of his touch.

Her hands were in his hair, at his jaw, matching his passion, her mind drawn back to the day of their wedding. Though her cheeks flamed at the memories, heat coiled in her belly, her thighs pressing together at the thought of his touch.

Edward's tongue was in her mouth, his arms holding her so tightly she might have been concerned for the fabric of her gown—but her thoughts were filled with nothing but him: his touch, the slick drag of his lips, the pressure of his hands, the sweet scent of him.

Isabella was uncertain she would have remembered herself had the sound of a shocked gasp not distracted her from Edward's kiss. She tore away from his embrace, cheeks flushed, hands at her hair and brushing at her gown. Fortunately, the two young ladies who had happened upon them had already turned and fled, giggles trailing in their wake.

"We should return home," Edward's voice was thick with want, deepening Isabella's flush.

She was certain her blush had not faded by the time they returned to the entrance of the gardens, her eyes cast to the ground with mortification. It was only in the darkness of the cab that her embarrassment subsided, shaking her head as Edward tried to reassure her that such hurried departures were likely commonplace. "Do not pretend that simply because impropriety is the norm, that it excuses your own predilections."

Edward paused only a moment before replying with a roguish smile, "I warned you I was feckless, did I not?"

When they returned to the house, Edward barely allowed her to draw off her gloves before taking her hand and leading her abovestairs.

"Edward!" she could not help exclaiming in a hissed whisper.

"We have already discussed this, dear wife," Edward smoothly replied. When they entered the bedchamber to find Mallory carefully folding freshly laundered gowns into the clothes press, he impatiently waved her from the room, apparently heedless of the bright red flushing her cheeks.

"Edward, she was scandalized!" Isabella exclaimed. But she was choking on a laugh, thinking of their conversation two days prior. If anything were to extinguish the maid's infatuation, it might be Edward's behavior.

"I have no objection to scandalizing the servants," Edward murmured against the skin at her throat, inhaling the scent of her as his lips skimmed the sensitive flesh beneath her ear.

"You are a devil," Isabella whispered, her hands circling his shoulders.

"As I have tried to tell you…"

Then all was murmurs and whispers, clothes falling in a haphazard disarray to the floor. Isabella delighted in the coolness of his skin as her own became heated and fevered, the heavy weight of him, lean muscles beneath taut skin, her breath panting past her lips.

"I beg you," his voice was a low and intent, brows low over black eyes as his hands curled over the soft flesh of her inner thighs. "Open your eyes."

She could do nothing but what he bid, panting for air as she met his gaze and felt the hard length of him sliding into the heart of her. His gaze remained fixed upon her own, watching as her lashes fluttered, struggling to keep her eyes open, overcome by the sensation. She was uncertain whether she was grateful or tormented by the fact that he was unmoving, somehow able to exercise this extreme control over himself.

Only when she was able to steady her gaze did he speak, the words a whisper. "Tell me," Something tormented tinged his countenance, watching her, waiting. "Tell me that you love me."

Isabella did not hesitate. "I love you," she whispered. Then, raising her hands to his face, she spoke the words again. "I love you, Edward."

His eyes sank shut, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. As he began to move, Isabella found herself repeating the words, crying them aloud as he stoked her body like a fire, ready to set the house ablaze.

It was some time before she could recover herself enough to speak, slick and spent beneath the weight of his figure, the bed curtains only partly drawn. Her shift was shucked around her waist, her legs clad in rumpled stockings, so impatient had Edward been to take her to bed.

"You must know I love you," she murmured, her voice languid with weary satisfaction.

But Edward did not speak to reply, slowly drawing away, his hands tender as they whispered over her skin. She lifted her head to watch him cross to the wash stand, dipping a towel in the basin before returning to her side.

Edward's reply was quiet when he spoke, and she sensed something almost embarrassed in the words. "I wanted to hear it from your lips." His touch was gentle as he drew the damp towel over the pale skin of her belly and down the curves of her thighs, drawing away her stockings as he did so.

Isabella could not help quietly asking, "And do you love me in return?"

"You know that I do." It was at this that his gaze shifted from the pale length of her body to meet her eyes, wondering if he should see any evidence of doubt there. But her brown eyes were inscrutable, a faint smile flitting over her lips before curiosity filled her gaze.

"Did you love her?"

Edward's gaze instantly returned to her belly, her hips, focusing upon the creamy satin of her skin in an effort to demonstrate no reaction to her question. He knew what she meant, who she meant, but he did not know how to answer in a way that would not bring her pain.

When he again drew away from the bed, moving back towards the enamel basin, she rose from the pillows, her voice light but strained. "Please forgive me, I should not have asked—"

"You can ask anything of me, Isabella," Edward interrupted her nervous words, wringing out the cloth before dipping it in the cool water once more. But the room remained silent as he crossed the carpets on silent feet, returning to the bed and drawing the damp cloth down her arms, seeming intent only on bathing her.

When Isabella had begun to think he had decided against answering, he finally spoke, his voice empty of emotion, "I was young. I was naïve. Like you, I knew Victoire was different and I felt privileged that she allowed me to see what she was." He paused, his lips briefly tightening, revealing a frustration that putting the truth into words made Isabella's love for him seem no different.

His gaze rose to her face, black eyes intent. "I was naïve," he repeated the words more forcefully. "To the young man I once was, her capriciousness seemed charming, her whims exciting and spontaneous." He shook his head, "I was delighted when I should have been troubled."

Edward's gaze fell to his hands, his lips twisting as he fought the haze of memories. "Even her temper struck me as no more troubling than the passing of a storm, for her tantrums were like that of a child and never lasted more than a day." Until he had dared to turn his back on her, permanently earning her disfavor.

"That she was this creature apart—it seemed fitting for was that not how I already perceived her nature?" He had never ceased feeling surprised that she had maintained an interest in him for as long as she did, for she was ever in motion, distracted by some new fancy, some novel entertainment.

Victoire's voice echoed in his head even now, though the memories were dim and shadowed. "I cannot imagine what should bring you here!" she had exclaimed, lifting a gloved hand without hesitation to his stubbled cheek. He had been too surprised that a lady in such fine garb had done more than pause to drop a coin into his tin cup, gazing up at her in dazed wonder. "You are far too fine a young man to be in such dire circumstances," her voice had shifted from one of surprise to determination, taking his dirty hand in one of her own.

"I have tried to find work," Edward began, his voice weak with hunger. But she seemed to need no further explanation, gesturing for him to follow her down the lane. He had been reduced to begging outside of the church and seeking what shelter he could after finding his uncle had died in the same epidemic that had taken his parents; by the time Edward had arrived at his relation's lodgings, the rooms had already been picked over by neighbors. What was more, he could find no one to take on an apprentice without someone to vouch for him.

"Ah, well, we shall see what we can find for you to do, Monsieur…?"

"Maçon," Edward had replied, struggling to keep up with her swift pace. "Edward Maçon."

"Monsieur Maçon," The lithe redhead had turned, ceasing her swift pace so abruptly that he had nearly stumbled into her figure. She curtsied, "I am Victoire," the glint in her black eyes as she meet his gaze was one of mischief…and something more, something he could not identify at the time. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"At first," Edward drew in a deep breath as he continued, "I was simply grateful she had seen fit to take me under her wing. Then, as I began to realize there was something unusual about her, I felt privileged that she would take me into her confidence." It was only later that he realized she had so glibly confessed the truth of her nature for she had never allowed her confidantes to live long. "At times I suspected she saw me as more of a…" his voice grew low, nearly angry even now though so much time had passed, "More of a pet than a person," he finished. Only after she had changed him had he begun to understand that she saw all humans as little more than cattle, lesser beings barely fit for her notice.

"But even when I felt such doubts, I told myself it could not be true—that she would not deign to allow me in her company, to have been at her side for so long, if she did not feel love for me as I felt for her." He could not bring himself to meet Isabella's gaze as he spoke the words. "Then, when I fell ill and she changed me rather than watch me die, I told myself it must be love. That it was only devotion that could have driven her to such a desperate act."

Isabella's voice trembled only slightly when she spoke, "Was it not devotion?"

Edward shook his head, his voice adamant as he met her gaze, "I am certain it was a decision as impulsively made as any other. She was accustomed to my company, to my presence, and knew no other way of keeping me at her side." His lips thinned. "Victoire had said many times that it was a gift no human was truly worthy of."

The weight of Isabella's hand upon his own allowed Edward to continue. "Though I'd known the truth for years, she had never subjected me to the reality of seeing her feed." He shook his head. "She had told me she visited prisons, asylums—pretending to be intent upon providing charity. Or that she would follow physicians, that if someone is already near death, she was delivering a mercy…"

Isabella's voice was quiet. "But that was not the truth."

"I should have known," Edward's voice was harsh but his anger was only for himself. "She lied as indiscriminately about everything else. I should have known that she had not a care for whose life she took." His nostrils flared. "Only after I was changed did I see what a fool I had been."

His black gaze shifted to her own, suddenly filled with an intense longing that she believe him. "Not only was I a fool about her true nature, I was a fool to think I had loved her." He nodded, "Certainly—at the time I thought it was love. But it was infatuation at best—blind worship at worst. It was not love."

"Edward," Isabella's hand tightened around his own. "That time is past. She is gone from your life now."

Edward's voice was grim, "I can only hope."

Isabella's voice turned curious again, attempting to change the subject from this dark topic as she asked, "Did you ever know any of the Aecenbotme family in France?" For as he had spoken of trust, and the faith that Victoire had broken in him, she could not help remembering her grandmother's words. _The gentleman with black eyes—he hides much but you need not fear him._

Edward's expression shifted to one of confusion, struggling to follow her shift in topic before focusing on her question. "Is that not your grandmother's family?" He recalled their conversation the night she had realized the truth of his nature. "I was never so far west…"

It was then that Isabella shared all the details of her grandmother's visit the fateful night of the Penzance assembly ball, including the cryptic words she had shared before leaving Isabella to retire for the night.

"All will be well…" Edward echoed the words softly, black eyes distant. Then, as his eyes focused, his lips curled into a grin, his hand trailing over the bare curve of her shoulder. "I cannot help but think that she was right."

Isabella smiled in turn, lifting a hand to his cool cheek. She repeated the words he had spoken only moments before. "I can only hope."


	31. Second Sight

_Thank you for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p>…<em>that as the Sight of Bats and Owls transcend that of Shrews and Moles, so the visive Faculties of Men are clearer than those of Owls; as Eagles, Lynxs, and Cats are brighter than Mens. And again, that Men of the Second Sight…surpass the ordinary Vision of other Men…<em>

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies  
><em>_Robert Kirk_

**thirty one**

Isabella dragged a hand across her eyes and pursed her lips in an attempt to moisten them. As she heard the faint tread of footfalls upon the soft rugs of the bedchamber, she realized it was the click of the door opening that had woken her.

"Ma'am?" Mallory's soft voice tentatively spoke from beyond the bed curtains. "Are you roused?" The words were a whisper for Mallory had yet to encounter her mistress still abed; Isabella could not help keeping her country hours though she knew her life with Edward did not require she rise early to help in the kitchen or tend the garden. The idea of lounging in her wrap until midday did not appeal, though she knew Edward would likely appreciate her lack of dress.

"I'm awake, Mallory." The words were a croak, reminding her she had drank far too much claret the prior night. She was not accustomed to drinking anything stronger than a weak ale or cider, but Edward had insisted the liquor purchased to celebrate their wedding be appreciated by someone. He had also promised it would aid her card-playing, which had sent her into peals of laughter; she had lost every hand of piquet to him, and had no doubt that alcohol would not help in the counting, bluffing, and negotiating that made up the game.

The curtains fluttered about the bed before light, partly blocked by Mallory's slim figure, poured in.

Isabella's hand flew to her eyes, squinting as her head throbbed.

"Would you like me to bring a tray with chocolate and some breakfast things?"

"Very much so, Mallory," Isabella replied with relief. As she shifted from the pillows, she decided she could be a languorous lady for one morning.

"There's a fresh pitcher of water upon the wash stand," Mallory tilted her head accordingly, "if you wish to wash." Then, with a curtsy, she left the room as quietly as she had entered it, and Isabella allowed herself to flop back against the pillows.

She found she felt much recovered after eating, washing, and allowing Mallory to help her don a morning gown. "Is Monsieur Maçon belowstairs?" she asked as the maid caught her hair at her nape with several pins.

"In the library, I believe, ma'am," Mallory replied. Isabella's lips twitched at the faint blush that stole along the maid's jawline, wondering that her infatuation had not flagged.

"I will join him there directly," she spoke the decision aloud as she rose from the small chair before the dressing table, glancing towards Mallory with a sympathetic smile before departing the room.

"It is likely too late to make our way to Hyde Park, is it not?" Isabella asked by way of greeting as she knocked and entered the library. She glanced towards the clock upon the mantel as she crossed the room, lips twisting as she saw the hour was far past noon.

Rounding the desk to where Edward was standing, she stretched up on her toes to land a kiss upon his cool cheek. "Good morning, my love."

"Good morning, Isabella," Edward smiled but she could see he was distracted, his gaze darting in her direction before returning to the letter in his hands. "If you wish to go, I would be more than happy to escort you."

"Not if you have other business to attend to," Isabella shook her head as she leaned a hip against the desk.

Edward's gaze rose from the letter to linger upon her face. Isabella endeavored to show no reaction upon seeing his eyes more golden than ever before, his pupils surrounded by halos of honey, the black irises swimming with hazel. She wondered how far he had ventured the night before to so thoroughly sate his appetite.

"We may be able to depart London shortly."

She could not help shaking her head at these words, failing first to believe what she had heard—and then feeling a sudden hollowness in her gut as she registered it was true. Edward's pale face was all seriousness, his gaze reflecting sudden concern at her apparent surprise.

Before he could speak, she rushed to ask a question, "You have had word from Mr. Cullen?"

Edward nodded but she could see his concern had not faded, his brow faintly furrowed as he spoke, "I heard from him not long after our arrival here, but it was necessary that he have time to get his household in order." He held the letter aloft, "He cannot vouch for the skill of the lady's maid in dressing hair, but he claims we should be able to make our way to Oxford whenever we wish."

"Please tell me you didn't insist he hire a retinue of staff!" Isabella protested, the odd shock she had felt fading at this turn in the conversation.

"It would be unacceptable for you to live in circumstances providing less comfort and convenience than this," Edward gestured to their surroundings, his voice indicating his affront that she would accept anything less.

"Edward, you know it isn't necessary," Isabella's words were a plea but she knew even as she spoke that it was no use. Edward was accustomed to a certain standard of living and would not suffer either of them settling for any less if at all possible. Then, a thought occurred to her. "Could we not propose bringing some of the servants here now to Oxford?" It would solve the issue of forcing Carlisle Cullen to take on staff he would have otherwise had no need for.

But Edward was shaking his head regretfully. His altered gaze rose to the door of the library before he rounded the desk and crossed the room with a speed she knew must be frustrating for him. Only after the door was securely closed behind him, did he speak. "It is always a risk, to expose oneself for any extended period of time." He returned to her side so quickly, she could not help starting.

Edward took her hand as he continued, his thumb tracing circles upon the soft skin of her palm. "The longer you are in close quarters, the more likely it is that those around you will begin to suspect something is amiss."

Isabella couldn't help frowning, pushing away the thought that she herself had been troubled by mysteries she couldn't quite define from her first meeting with Edward. "How can any of the servants possible think anything is amiss? It's not been a fortnight!"

Edward tilted his head, regarding her with his oddly colored eyes. "I believe Mallory has already begun to suspect."

Isabella's lips gaped, brown eyes wide with disbelief before she thought back to the maid's blushes and nervous fidgeting.

At her apparent disbelief, Edward added, "She's noticed I've yet to eat any meals—"

"You join me at times!" Isabella protested. But he rarely did more than shift the food on his plate around when he sat with her at breakfast or supper.

"And she has noticed I am never in bed with you in the morning—and the bedding in the other rooms is undisturbed."

Isabella's disbelief faded to be replaced by consternation. Perhaps she should not be surprised that the maid's fascination with the master of the house had led her to be more observant of him than the other staff. Perhaps Mallory's blushes and nervousness had shifted over these past days from being reactions of embarrassed infatuation to true anxiety—perhaps she had begun to sense that there was something dangerous and uncanny in Edward's nature.

"Should I speak to her?" she finally asked, unable to think what they should do if Mallory arrived at the truth of what Edward was.

Isabella did not know whether she was relieved or perturbed that Edward's response was more amused than worried, his lips curling into a half-smile as he answered, "McCarty has already set her down for her curiosity."

"He has?"

"I overheard a conversation several nights ago. She was suggesting there was something suspicious in my habits, and speculating as to my being a probable spy for Bonaparte—"

Isabella could not help her laugh at this, lifting a hand to her mouth at the thought of such a thing.

"—when McCarty very firmly told her that she should be grateful for the employment—and the reference that would result from such easy work." Edward affected McCarty's burr as he continued, expertly mimicking the Scotsman, "For were we not perhaps the most lenient master and mistress any of them have had? And for what reason should she look such a gift horse in the mouth?"

"Oh, he is a sensible young man," Isabella smiled. "That we cannot at least ask him to join us in Oxford is to be regretted."

Edward nodded. "I do not disagree. But you see now that it is a risk."

Isabella nodded. "I do see."

"You will be safer in Oxford," Edward vowed. She heard the words he did not dare speak aloud: that with two unnaturally strong, impossibly fast vampires as company, there was no way she could come to harm. "And I can begin my search for Alice anew." The heaviness that tinged his voice as he spoke this final thought stifled any regret Isabella might have felt for the thought of leaving London. While she had been enjoying a reprieve from the trials that had set her on this path, Alice was lost to him still.

Though they were not to depart immediately, Isabella could not help feeling a sense of anticipation for the remainder of the day. Her hands twitched with the urge to neaten and pack her belongings, and her limbs could not be still, pacing from room to room so restlessly that she was certain she drew the servants' notice.

But Edward had tasks to attend to yet, and planned to venture into the City to secure the coins he'd need to pay the staff and the coach to be hired for the long day's journey to Oxford. "I will also pay a visit to my solicitor to see about renewing the search for tenants for the house; I cannot foresee returning in the near future though we may convince Carlisle to give up his ascetic life as an Oxford don yet." His smile indicated the words were only somewhat in jest, and she wondered at the character of the man they were set to live with in a short time; she had only her too-vivid dream of a future that had never been as a vague reference.

However, upon returning to the house that evening, she learned that his solicitor had not been available. "His clerk shared that he was called away on other business. I've arranged to see him in the morning and we should be able to ready ourselves for departure soon after."

Isabella nodded, swallowing her trepidation. She was uncertain why she felt such anxiety at the thought of leaving the house on Half Moon Street, and told herself it must simply be the idea of departing the one place of security she had known since she had fled Cornwall.

Even so, she awoke the following morning feeling a sense of unease. She was reassured by finding the house as calm as any other day, the housemaid having retired belowstairs hours before, and McCarty ready at the sideboard in the dining room. She managed to find her appetite upon seeing the steaming food, and even engaged with McCarty on such light topics as the probable weather for the day, the meal he expected to be served for dinner that night, and which wine he thought best served with roasted lamb.

Isabella was smiling when she retreated to the library after the meal, where she found Edward tucking several letters into the inner pocket of his jacket as he donned his gloves and hat. "I will return shortly," he promised as he bent to kiss her cheek.

"Very well," Isabella smiled, wondering that her lips should tremble with the motion. "I will be waiting."

"In not too dire a state of boredom, I hope," Edward wryly added, nodding to the books around them.

"Oh, never," Isabella replied, gesturing to the novel she had left in one of the cushioned chairs the prior night.

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him so quietly, that she would not have heard the click of the latch had she not been so intent upon watching him go.

It was several minutes before she was able to focus her attention upon the words on the page, though she could not have said what she found distracting had she been asked. Eventually, though, she found herself lost in the story of the gloomy, haunted castle of Wolfenbach, caught up in the travails of the blameless heroine.

Only when the room grew abruptly cold did she find her brow furrowing, drawn from the adventures on the page by the chill creeping across her skin. She glanced to the fireplace, thinking to see the fireboard missing, the blackened bricks exposed to the draft presumably sweeping down the chimney.

Seeing the fireboard had not been set aside by the housemaid, Isabella's frown deepened before her gaze slid to the windows—for she could only think that the sky must have darkened with cloud cover, the street shadowed, gray and cooler than moments before.

Even as this assumption fluttered through her mind, panic was clawing at the back of her throat, pressing away the foolish hope as she flung the book to the floor and shot to her feet. For there had been only one other instance in which a chill had crept across her skin so abruptly that her head had lifted, certain she would see the sky had darkened. There was only one other instance in which she had raised her head, and squinted to find the sun shining, bright and unhindered by clouds.

Before a conscious thought could form in her mind, her feet were rushing from the room, certain she must do something, anything to avert the disaster that must accompany such a foreboding sense of dread. Her gaze was filled with the memory of the dancing horses, James Eldritch Junior's frothing anger, finger pointing in accusation as his father tried to calm him. She did not hear the patter of her slippers as her feet transitioned from the carpet of the library to the marble of the corridor, her hands clenched into fists, sweat pooling in the small of her back as her breath came in panicked pants.

It was only after she swung through the green baize door that she paused, a hand on her belly, struggling to think what to do. For what would she say? What suspicion might she cause if the servants were to note her distress and then witness some terrible occurrence shortly thereafter? She realized she must demonstrate a semblance of calm if she was to avoid the accusations the fishermen and drovers had shouted that night, only a short time ago, before they had bound her wrists and dragged her to Tiller's Spring.

Breathing deeply, steadily, she lifted her hands to her hair, smoothing any loose tendrils towards the tightly pinned knot at her nape. Then, she quickly shook out her skirts before lifting her chin and proceeding sedately down the narrow stairwell.

She had not ventured into the quarters belowstairs since that first rainy day in London, and she distractedly absorbed the transformation of the once dusty, unused rooms as she passed through them; herbs hung from the low rafters, a fire sputtered in the enormous hearth, and the delicious smell of something simmering filled the air. Given the morning chores and first meal of the day were behind them, the kitchen, larder, and scullery were empty; after turning down a narrow corridor, she found the servants in the dining hall. Because they had not heard the tread of her footfalls over their own conversation, they all appeared quite startled before rising from their seats in a mix of courteous bows and curtsies.

Isabella nodded in greeting and was relieved her voice did not shake when she spoke. "Good day. I do apologize for interrupting." Then, turning her gaze to McCarty, she asked, "Would it be at all possible to fetch Mr. Maçon? I believe he was intent upon meeting with Mr. Sawyer, his solicitor."

"Of course, ma'am," McCarty bobbed in a hurried bow before moving away from the table to reach for his hat upon a nearby peg.

"I believe it's where the employment notice was posted," Isabella continued, swallowing as she heard the note of anxiety in her voice.

"Right away, ma'am."

Struggling for calm as clammy fingers clawed at her stomach, Isabella nodded, "Thank you very much, McCarty."

She turned, hands fisting in her skirts in an attempt to prevent their shaking. It took all of her effort to sedately cross the dark hall back to the stairs that would return her to the upper floors. She couldn't help pausing once she had turned into the narrow stairwell, struggling for breath, longing for calm, for the certainty that the dread she was feeling was simply that—a feeling unaccompanied by any possibility that something terrible must immediately follow.

"What was that all for?" Mallory's voice drifted down the corridor, faint but audible. Isabella stilled, holding her breath.

"What do you mean?" The cook replied, her voice raspy with age.

"So aflutter she can't think to ring the bell?" Mallory replied. "What's got her in such a dither?"

"It ain't for me to wonder at the motivations of Quality." The cook's reply was dismissive. "And ain't it her house? If she chooses to ring the bell or march on down to the kitchen, that's her right."

"Alright, alright," Mallory subsided, "but still, she's an odd duck."

Unwilling to listen any further, Isabella pushed through the green baize door.

It was impossible to do anything but pace once she returned to the library, treading the carpets with restless feet, hands wringing before her as her gaze drifted repeatedly to the clock, watching the passing minutes with increasing anxiety. Could it have taken McCarty so long to reach the solicitor's office? How far had Edward gotten before the cold dread had blanketed her senses—she could not think to remember how much time had passed, if it was possible that he had reached his destination without event. And was it Edward she should be concerned for, or someone else, someone innocent in all of this, as James Eldritch had been?

The time seemed interminable, but the minute hand had only circled once around the face of the clock upon the mantle when Edward burst into the room with a restrained speed that almost hinted at how unnaturally fast he could truly be.

"What is it?" Isabella knew by his countenance that something, some terrible event had occurred—his dark eyes were wide but intent, lips tight, the muscle at his jaw jumping.

"We must go." He was before her, his gloved hands around her upper arms, his voice low and unwilling to brook any argument. "There is no time to pack—perhaps your travel gown…" Then he was gone, ringing the bell.

"But, Edward," she tried to break in, to ask what drove this panicked need to flee.

"There is no time," he turned, his voice forceful. Then Mallory was at the door, her features going abruptly pale at the baleful expression on Edward's face. His voice, however, managed to sound calm when he bid, "If you could ask the housemaid to hail a hackney and help Madame Maçon change before seeing to packing her things—"

"Yes, of course, sir," Mallory's lips trembled over her teeth.

"Now." The single word was not a shout, but it was spoken with such force that Mallory was simply a swirl of skirts disappearing down the corridor.

"Did you see McCarty? I asked him to fetch you—"

"He is belowstairs," Edward was back at her side, his hand on her arm. "Please," his dark eyes met her frantic gaze, steady and calming for a brief instant. "Please go upstairs and change—a bonnet with a veil at the very least. We'll take a hackney to the nearest inn and find a coach to take us to Oxford—by some circuitous route," he shook his head, brow furrowing. Then, his gaze returned to her own. "Please. I'll explain everything in the cab."

Mallory had returned, her cheeks flushed with how quickly she had hurried to hail the cab, her hands nervously fisted in her skirts. Isabella glanced from the maid's expectant gaze to the torment dancing beneath Edward's expression, and finally followed Mallory abovestairs.

She could barely withstand the maid's fussing, especially given the biting comments she'd heard belowstairs earlier that day—but she allowed herself to be laced into the deep red traveling gown Madame Desjardins had delivered such a short time ago. It took all of her willpower not to slap away Mallory's hands when the maid tried to tie the ribbons of the matching hat, her words sharp as she spoke, "I can do it myself."

Then, struggling for a kinder tone, "If you'll see to packing the remainder of my things in the valises, I'm certain Mr. Maçon will have given McCarty direction as to where to send the baggage."

"Yes, ma'am," the maid curtsied, but a flush stained her cheeks. Was the blood due to embarrassment or anger? But it did not matter for Isabella knew she had likely already lingered too long. She could not restrain herself from hurrying down the stairs, returning to the library to find Edward giving McCarty a last set of instructions in a low, intent voice.

"If you will distribute the wages and see that everyone is on their way before locking up the house," he proffered a pouch that Isabella was certain was heavy with coins.

"And the baggage, sir?" McCarty was remarkably composed given the circumstances, his freckled features pale but impassive as he took the purse.

"Please see that everything is sent to the Crown and Treaty Inn at Uxbridge. I'll manage it from there."

"Very well, sir," Emmett bowed his head in one sharp motion, before turning on his heel. He bowed more deeply when he saw Isabella, before passing silently from the room.

"A hackney waits outside," Edward's voice was grim as he took her arm again, leading her from the room.

"But won't you tell me—"

"Once we're gone," Edward promised. The day seemed unaccountably bright as they passed through the front door, and Isabella dragged at the veil stitched to the brim of her hat with a shaking hand, uncertain what danger she might be in should she be recognized.

It was only once they were in the hackney, the clack of the horse's hooves against cobblestones nearly drowning out the words that Edward spoke, his voice low.

"It is my solicitor, Sawyer."

"What?" Isabella could not help interjecting, confused. For what reason could his solicitor wish them harm? Hadn't Edward confessed that he had as little interaction with the man as possible to prevent suspicion?

"Robert Sawyer, my solicitor. He was not at his office."

Isabella's face abruptly drained of all blood as she began to understand. "But you had an appointment."

Edward shook his head, his lips thinning over clenched teeth. "He was not there—neither him, nor his clerk. There were—" he ducked his head, biting out the words reluctantly. "There were traces of blood—" He shook his head again, wishing he could hide this truth from her. "I have little reason to hope they survived."

Isabella's voice was a strangled whisper when she spoke, her gaze wide and blind behind the shadow of the veil. "Victoire?"

Edward could not meet her gaze, could not speak, simply nodding once in silent affirmation.

~ • ~

The world had brightened but gradually, the black waste growing gray, a muffled murkiness she was not certain she wished to leave behind. But she was drawn to the light, to relief from the unrelenting blackness, to sensations other than cold and silence—but for the faint call and echo of creatures she had once seen in the pages of books, their bodies darkly gleaming and speckled with patches of white.

She reached for that memory, extending a hand as though she could snatch it from the weightless water around her. There was so little she remembered, so little she understood. Perhaps she would know more by seeking the light. Perhaps she would understand by leaving the darkness behind. And perhaps she could seek to end the terrible burn in her throat, a pain and hunger the like of which she had never known.

She had lifted a hand instinctively to her eyes as the brightness grew, barely absorbing that she had no need of the shade it provided; her gaze drank in every detail of the barren shore, sand dunes tufted with golden grass, the sky milky with white clouds, a copse of brambly trees jutting over the dunes to the south.

She had no sense of how long she laid in the sand, fascinated by the sensation of the grains against her palms, against the softness of her cheek. She had been beyond time for so long that it had no meaning for her, focusing upon the foreign feeling of wet trickling down her limbs, the cling of drenched fabric to her skin. When the sound of a voice interrupted the steady roar of the waves against the shore, the call of birds overhead, she finally stirred, lifting her head to watch the approaching fisherman.

Her pupils shrank as she saw her hand claw at his shoulder, fingers sinking painfully into rough fabric and firm flesh, before her teeth raked at his throat; blood arced from the messy wound, splashing her rumpled white night dress with vivid red.

She blinked and the image disappeared. The fisherman was still approaching, calling to her prone figure. Without another thought, she rose to her feet and raced towards the trees, determined the vision she'd seen would not come to pass.

For it was a vision. This much she remembered. Flashes of faces, a figure darting across a road, a few words uttered so decisively that she would repeat them without realizing—and how frightened her mother's gaze when the priest spoke them from the pulpit the following Sunday. She fell to her knees just as she reached the copse of trees, for her gaze was blinded by the memory…the memory of a vision, or was it something she had witnessed? It seemed so real, the familiar figure crashing to the ground, blue eyes stunned, his body riddled with bayonet wounds. She had been inconsolable that night, eyes filled with tears as she had sobbed into her hands. _Father is gone, Father is dead._ She had only quieted when her mother's hand cracked across her cheek, dark eyes filled with fear and the certainty that her daughter was right.

The sky darkened, filling with stars that seemed to wink and brighten. She knew she had not slept, but she did not question why. She knew she should be cold in the rags of her white night dress, but she felt no discomfort as she lay where she had fallen, watching the sky through the delicate boughs of birches and elms. She thought she remembered these stars, twinkling through the narrow porthole of the cabin—but then the ship had somehow caught fire, the heat unbearable. She had fled above, to the deck, to the cool air—but the flames had chased her, threatening to engulf her. Though she knew it meant death, she had flung herself overboard, desperate to escape the fire.

But was this a memory? Or a vision of something to come? She could not be certain, though her unmarked flesh seemed to indicate she had never been in danger…

She haunted the shore, ducking in and out of the trees, avoiding the fishermen that occasionally made their way down the beach in search of shellfish hugging jagged rocks. She tried to eat one of the glistening mussels but found herself retching up the morsel of food as though it was poison. It was only when she spied a stray dog, the fur at its neck and back bristling with wariness as she approached, that she began to understand.

"Worry not," she murmured in soft voice, the first words she'd spoken in weeks. "I mean you no harm."

But it was a lie—a lie she had not intended to tell, but a lie nonetheless. The dog had tried to flee but was no match for her speed, for her strength. She had been overcome before she knew what she was about, the thirst coursing through her muscles, her bones, demanding she drink. She had wept silent tears over the lifeless body, filled with fear for the first time since she had emerged from the dark murk of the sea.

The vision came to her first. A woman neatly garbed, her red hair curling in a complicated arrangement at her nape, black eyes intent. Her voice was coy when she spoke, teeth gleaming with a flashing smile. "You are fortunate, young one, that I learned of the rumors first." She shook her head. "These foolish fishermen with their tales of a mermaid, a shipwrecked maid, a demon who moves to quickly to be seen." A laugh trilled from her throat before a gloved hand wrapped around her forearm. She thought to jerk away but the vision shifted, the woman's face twisting with anger before her fingers tightened and threats began to spill from her lips.

So when the woman appeared, speaking the same words, laughing the same laugh, she did not resist.

She remained docile in the weeks that followed, for whenever she attempted to flee, to resist, Victoire's threats became true, became real. She saw the dark-haired figure of the woman she knew to be her mother, struck down like a doll as Victoire reached for the young girl cowering in the corner, terror evident in her eyes. She recognized herself in the frightened girl; she bore the same black hair, the same pale, heart-shaped face, the same sharp nose and small mouth. And once, their eyes had been the same bright blue…

"I will tear out your sister's throat if you don't do as I say, Alice," Victoire promised. And Alice believed her for she had seen.

So she obeyed, following the woman she thought of as her rescuer and her tormentor—for Victoire gave her understanding, even as she filled Alice with fear. She came to understand the truth of what she was, that she was now a creature apart even more than she had once been. She learned that she had been changed, though Victoire grew vague and then angry when Alice attempted to question the details of how this came about. She learned her name but never fully understood how she and Victoire had been acquainted—only that Victoire had once traveled through Montcavrel with a purpose she would not share. What was more, Victoire clothed her, garbing her in garments richer than any she could recall from the haze of her memories, kid gloves for her hands, delicate slippers for her feet, and fanciful hats to cover her black hair. She was surrounded by servants in a manner she knew she had no memory of; a servant dressed her hair, another drew warm baths whenever she wished, while yet another offered to stoke the fire as high as she desired.

But there were no servants to serve at table, no cooks, no meals delivered on silver trays.

"They do not suspect?" Alice could not help asking.

Victoire waved a careless hand. "We will not be in Calais long. We will return to Montcavrel soon, little one." Her lips curled with a smile that held no humor. "I suspect we will find answers there."

It was Alice's first slip, desperate to prevent Victoire from venturing anywhere near her mother and sister. "But he is looking for me."

Victoire's gaze widened, her spine straightening. "Who?"

The visions came so quickly that Alice struggled to make sense of the images. But Victoire was not patient, and was already before her, hands wrapped in a tight grip around her upper arms. "Who, you mute girl! Tell me now!"

Alice shook her head, struggling to say words that would not lead to fire and death, to terror and nightmares. She closed her eyes as Victoire's hands tightened around her arms, desperately seeking the word that would at the very least delay what Victoire intended. "Edward," she finally choked out. She could see that confession would take them to England, far from Montcavrel—but into the path of danger for the pale young man who bore the same hungry black eyes as Victoire.

"Where?" Victoire demanded.

Alice shook her head, her gaze vague as she feigned ignorance. "The coast…the coast…" She repeated the words, unwilling to admit he had decided to venture as far west as necessary to find her. But why should he be looking for her?

Victoire released her, black eyes narrow and thoughtful as she sank back into her chair. "Is that what drew his notice, then?" Alice knew without speaking that this question was not for her, that the calculating redhead was merely thinking aloud. "A seer…" Victoire lifted a hand, rubbing her chin.

"Tell me," she leaned forward, her voice filled with impatient anticipation. "What do you see of my future?"

But Alice shook her head, her voice insistent, "The visions come unexpectedly, Madame. I have no sense of what I will see…or when." Her gaze remained steady and calm as she spoke, for she had learned from the beginning to share only that which would not bring her, or those she had once cared for, to harm.

"You cannot see if we will find Edward?" The name was spoken as though it was a vile thing, spit from feminine lips.

Alice shook her head again, unwilling to admit she had seen it a dozen times since she had spoken his name: two powerful bodies grappling through a fine house, uncaring of the furniture smashed and broken as they struggled to destroy one another…or circling one another in the rain, grass slick beneath their feet, thunder crashing overhead as Victoire laughed at the torment evident on the pale man's face…or worse still, tearing at one another in the narrow crowded streets of a city much like Paris, washer women, peddlers, and urchins attempting to flee the melee. It was only by deciding that she would tell Victoire nothing that the visions grew hazy and blurred into darkness.

"I do not know, Madame." She tilted her head. "But I see we will try."


	32. Artful Temper

Thank you so much for reading & reviewing.

* * *

><p>…<em>he is violent in his temper, yet artful…<em>

_Clarissa, or the History of a Young Lady  
><em>_Samuel Richardson_

**thirty two**

The snow had glittered like jewels, this much she remembered.

They day had dawned bright, a relief from the darkness that had accompanied the baleful weather, wind howling around the cottage as snow frosted the window panes. Given the sun did not show its face until well after the morning chores were finished, and then fled over the horizon well before it was time for the evening meal, this brightness was like waking to a kiss, full of sweetness and promise.

Isabella's inability to remain within the walls of the cottage for any great duration of time was in no way a random habit with no discernible origin; no, Isabella's ever present desire to be outdoors, in the fresh air, surrounded by green, was one frequently demonstrated by her mother. It seemed that from the moment she had begun walking, she had trailed after her mother's skirts, winding through the narrow paths of the garden, chubby fingers reaching for leaves and petals.

So it was no different when the sun dawned bright but cold that winter morning. When Renée announced at breakfast that she intended to make her way towards town, Sheil could not help asking, "But for what reason would ye venture out in this weather?"

Renée had simply shrugged and seeing that Sheil made no further protest, Isabella piped up, "May I go?"

It had been a treat, to enjoy her mother's company uninterrupted by chores, or servants wishing to know if the butcher's prices were reasonable, or a neighbor in need of a poultice for a chest cough. Isabella could not help her bright smile as she trailed after Renée, whose pace was steady and uninterrupted by the distractions that drew Isabella from the path; though she was nearly twelve, she was still several inches shorter than her mother, her legs too short to stay abreast without breaking into a run.

But Renée had paused so suddenly that Isabella had nearly raced by, breathless as she nearly stumbled into a drift of snow. Once she steadied herself, she looked about, drinking in the surrounding countryside: the glittering snow beneath shining sun, the skeletal branches of naked trees reaching towards the sky, the faint crack of a nearby spring melting in the warmth, the ghostly white cloud before her lips as her breath met the cold air. "Do you see, Isabella?"

She realized the hood of her mother's cloak had nearly fallen from her curly hair for her head was tilted back, gazing into the branches of the leafless tree angled over the path.

"_Les glaçons_," her mother softly replied, likely unable to recall the word in English—if she had ever known it.

"Icicle," Isabella replied, gazing up at the suspended stalactites, like clear daggers of glass.

"Icicle," her mother repeated, before dragging off her glove and reaching up to snap one of the daggers free.

Smiling, she had offered the melting sliver of ice to her daughter.

Isabella, who had only rarely enjoyed the extravagance of ice, could not resist putting the icicle in her mouth, gasping as she swallowed. Her body filled with the sensation of cold, while Renée broke into peals of laughter at her shocked expression. "Well, what did you expect, my love?"

Isabella could not help thinking back to that sensation of cold, as if her belly were filled with the chill of the ocean. She swallowed instinctively, but the feeling did not dissipate, her eyes wide and blind as the carriage rocked down the Oxford Road, a patter of summer rain tapping against the roof of the cab.

Her hands were knotted into tight fists upon her lap, knuckles straining against the soft leather of her gloves. She desperately wished Edward had remained in the cab with her, but she understood the circumstances dictated he remain on the box with the driver, scanning the surrounding countryside for any indication that Victoire was near.

Isabella could not allow herself to think of the creature Edward had once believed himself to love; if she allowed herself to remember that someone as strong as Edward, someone as fast as Edward was in pursuit, intent upon doing both of them harm, her throat began to close, her breath hitching as she struggled to find air. If she allowed herself to think of Victoire, she found herself imagining Robert Sawyer, Edward's solicitor, dead by some horrifying means. Did he have children? Was his wife waiting at home for him still, increasingly worried, watching the sky darken as she waited for a husband who would never return?

Isabella tried to push away thoughts of Victoire, the cold expanding in her belly, in her throat, eyes wide and unseeing…but her mind could not focus upon anything hopeful. Instead, she found herself mired in memories of the day James Eldritch arrived at the cottage, determined to dispel the rumors that she had caused the storm that took the lives of two fishermen. When she shook her head, fists clenching, struggling to escape these dark thoughts, she found herself instead recalling Sheil's outraged cries as the mob circled the cottage, determined to defend her charge.

Isabella closed her eyes, forcing herself to think of a memory unclouded by fear. She thought back, thinking of their sunlit days in London, a veil drawn before her eyes, the world hazy beyond the lace. She thought back farther, then shook her head at the recollection of the anxious days they had spent on the road. Finally, she pictured the fallow field, the sun warm and glowing above, casting everything in a honeyed light. She inhaled and tried to recall the scent of the flowers, dusky purple and bright yellow against the green of the waving grass. She loosened her hands, thinking of the book she had held, the pages soft and worn as she read of faraway lands and distant places.

When the carriage rocked to a standstill, Isabella's head jerked up, startled as she saw it was not some calamity that had halted their progression; she could hear the low voices of Edward and the coachman, uninflected by panic or fear. And beyond the window of the carriage she could see a garden, slightly overgrown with leafy trees and sprawling hedges, beyond which rose a house of dark brick.

Despite her best efforts, she started when Edward appeared in the carriage window, dark eyes watchful as he asked, "Are you well?" Concern deepened the lines already furrowing his forehead as he noted her apparent anxiety.

"I am…" she knew it was useless to lie but she had no desire to add to Edward's burdens. She finally answered, "I am well enough," before stepping down from the carriage. It was impossible to refrain from scanning the road but there was little see; trees towered opposite the house, an uncultivated tract of drooping willows and wild hedges that blurred the border between road and woodland.

"We're nearly to Wytham," Edward explained as he nodded to the coachman, who was checking the traces of his horses before returning to the box. There was no baggage to unload as everything was likely waiting at Uxbridge for Edward's direction.

Isabella did not discern the gate Edward pushed open for the wrought iron was nearly lost in the cockscomb growing in abundance around the fence there. His voice was low as he added, "Like me, Carlisle relies on local wildlife for his diet. It's much more convenient—and less suspicious—to be near woodland and countryside than in the heart of Oxford."

Isabella nodded as they reached the door of the house, then attempted to refrain from demonstrating her surprise when it abruptly opened. Of course he had heard them. Of course he had avoided being seen by the coachman. And of course he would not be so impolite as to force them to rap at the door.

But if she struggled to conceal her surprise, Carlisle Cullen made no attempt to hide his own. His pale face rapidly filled with shock, golden eyes growing wide as his lips parted; he hung in the door like a creature suspended, one hand limp upon the knob while the other braced against the door frame.

"Good day, Cullen," Edward's voice betrayed no emotion, calm and collected. "I assume you intend to invite us inside?"

The golden haired gentleman in the doorway dumbly stepped back, allowing Isabella to see a wide corridor floored in dark wood; she barely absorbed a mirror framed in silver opposite a cupboard likely dedicated to coats and cloaks before Edward was escorting her inside. He moved so rapidly that she felt somewhat breathless when they reached a drawing room filled with southern light, jewel toned carpets beneath their feet.

Edward turned to face their host, who had followed them down the hall; the surprise in his expression was rapidly being replaced by consternation. "My wife," Edward offered as brief introduction. "Madame Isabella Maçon."

When Carlisle Cullen finally spoke, he gestured with one pale hand in her direction though his angry gaze remained on Edward's impassive countenance. "You said you had taken a wife—you never said she was human!"

"I told you she required protection," Edward's voice remained calm. "Why would she be vulnerable if she was like us?" The reasonableness of his tone seemed to silence Carlisle for the moment, though his frown did not fully fade as he struggled to think of a response. "What's more," Edward continued, the words smooth, "I suspect we are in greater danger than I originally thought." He paused and Isabella could not help her eyes sinking shut as he spoke the truth aloud. "I believe Victoire is in England."

But it was as if Edward had not spoken—or, more shockingly, that Carlisle did not share their concerns—for he returned to the subject of Isabella's humanity with undiminished vehemence. "Vulnerable?" The word escaped his lips with disbelief, golden eyes wide and questioning. "How is she not vulnerable to _you_?" He gestured to Isabella again, brows lowering, "Is she not in danger every moment she is in your company?"

"Edward would never hurt me." Isabella's response was soft but firm. At this, Carlisle Cullen finally turned his gaze to her, evidently shocked that she had spoken.

But he did not deign to reply to her, returning his attention to Edward. "You put her at risk every day—and you made her your wife?!" The outrage in his tone was unmistakable.

"I have not drunk from a human in more than a hundred years, Carlisle—"

"And one slip, Edward, one crucial misstep—"

"Edward would never hurt me," Isabella broke into their conversation again, her voice low, determined to be heard. "And if anyone should have a say about what risks I take, it should be me."

She did not realize her hands had curled into fists, her gaze steady as she returned Carlisle's gaze; his expression remained angry and doubtful but she now felt her own anger so fiercely that she could not care for her host's feelings. "How dare you feel concern about Edward's restraint—Edward, who has now spent weeks in my company, the latter few as my husband—when I stand before you unharmed? What presumption would bring you to think he is not able to exercise the same restraint you do?" She stepped forward a pace, gesturing with an open palm in Carlisle's direction.

"For you would exercise that restraint," her chest heaved as her fury grew, thinking back to the horrifying vision that had finally brought the truth of Edward's nature to light. "I was to live with you, Mr. Cullen, though the idea fills me with great ire now that we have finally met!" It was at this that Carlisle's expression finally shifted from one of consternation to frank surprise, his head rocking back as though she had physically struck him. "For I cannot help but think that should Edward have decided to leave me, to give me up for my own safety," she sneered the words, "that his decision would only have been met with support by you."

Isabella knew she was likely flushed with anger, her lungs heaving against her stays as she went on, "By you, who had never met me! By you, who had no sense of what we have endured together!" Her eyes narrowed. "You know nothing of me, of what I think, of how I feel—you only see a helpless human girl, a dumbstruck creature you perhaps presume was taken in by Edward's charm." She glanced back to her husband, barely noting that the room had darkened, the patter of summer rain having increased as she spoke, tapping insistently against the window panes.

"You do us both a disservice by making such presumptions," she continued, turning back to Carlisle, nostrils flaring. "And I would bid you to focus your concern, your attention, and your anger at the real danger to me and to Edward—rather than falling over yourself to chastise us for a danger that is only in your imagination!"

Several seconds passed in which no one in the room spoke, the only sound Isabella's agitated breathing. Finally, she felt the gentle touch of Edward's hands on her shoulders, his voice soft as he spoke, "Your points are all well noted, my love." His grasp briefly tightened, a reassuring squeeze. "Perhaps you might like to go upstairs, remove your hat and gloves—" He glanced to Carlisle, "and Cullen will send up a maid with a bit of brandy."

Though she longed to protest, Isabella knew her nerves were utterly frayed—that her outburst was as much the result of fear as it was anger at Carlisle Cullen's presumption. With a short nod of her head, she did as he asked, sweeping from the room without sparing a glance for the blond gentleman who was to act as their host.

It was only when Edward heard the tread of Isabella's feet on the floor above that he turned, sinking into a cushioned armchair near the window. The rain had already begun to lessen, the sun glowing down through the brief flurry of storm clouds.

Carlisle's voice was quiet and wondering when he asked, "What is she?"

Edward lifted a hand to his brow, needlessly rubbing his temple. "I…" He shook his head, thinking of the mob that had circled Tiller's spring, torches flaring in the darkness. He leaned his head back, his eyes sinking shut. "_Deviners guerissers_?"

"Diviner…" Carlisle echoed him disbelievingly and Edward could see in his thoughts the image of his father at the pulpit, pounding his bible, his sermon filled with vitriol for all the dangers he imagined to threaten the church.

"A witch. A seer. A summoner." Edward spoke shortly. "But what does it matter?"

"What does it matter?" Carlisle echoed him again, this time with shock before he gestured to the window. "That squall was her doing, wasn't it? Did she even realize?"

"In all likelihood?" Edward replied, a faint smile crossing his lips. "She may have," he shrugged. "She may not have." He looked down at his hands with this admission that he could not hear her—that he had no idea. "My understanding is she was only recently made aware of her…abilities."

"She saw…" Carlisle swallowed, as though still unable to believe it. "She saw that she lived with me?"

Edward lifted his head. "For decades."

It was Carlisle who then took a seat, his hand lifting to his brow. Edward was certain that had he still been human, it would have trembled. "You learn the tales at your mother's knee," he murmured. His golden eyes lifted, narrowing with a new thought. Edward had to restrain himself from answering before Carlisle spoke the observation aloud. "She appears to be well-bred."

"And I have married her," Edward calmly replied.

Carlisle's smile held no humor. "Come, Edward, what does that mean to someone like you or me?" He pointed a pale finger to his chest. His mind reached back, to a time when puritanical dissenters were fleeing the shores of England in the wake of the restoration of the English monarchy, to men in long curling wigs and women in dresses with slashed sleeves. Edward was not certain whether Carlisle meant their kind were beyond time, that such commitments could mean nothing to them—but before he could ask, Carlisle's thoughts shifted, recalling some of the company Edward had enjoyed when they'd temporarily resided together in Scotland. "And you've always been a vampire in more ways than one."

"I've dallied, I admit" Edward shrugged. "But with widows, actresses…" He shook his head. "Never with anyone who expected anything nearing commitment from me."

"Very well," Carlisle finally conceded, leaning back in his chair. But he could not help one final word of caution, his gaze steady and admonishing as he added, "But she will age, Edward, while you remain the same."

Edward's lips twisted. "At the moment, Cullen," he paused, closing his eyes as he thought of Victoire's devilish smile. "My only goal is to keep Isabella safe."

Carlisle nodded his head, but Edward could nonetheless hear the thought that the preacher's son did not speak aloud. _Just as feckless as ever._

~ • ~

Wind whipped down the narrow streets of the coastal town, brisk and scented with brine, the air fragrant with salt and seaweed, faintly pungent. Alice knew that had she been human, it would have made her breathless, her cheeks red, her eyes stinging with the snap and chill of it. Instead, she skulked through the streets at Victoire's side, feigning the need for the cloak that shrouded her figure, feigning dismay as they saw no sign of the dark-haired man she'd glimpsed in her visions.

She longed to stand on the white bluffs she'd seen as their ship had approached land, gazing across the choppy, frothy waters, her vision filled with flashes of a future she fought to keep at bay. Perhaps it was this longing that distracted her from the immediate future before her, struggling to push the visions of a pale, innocent man's destruction into the shadows.

"Mademoiselle, a coin for a poor old woman." They had encountered a few beggars in the immediate vicinity of the docks; perhaps it was her unlikely presence here, near the busy barracks with soldiers crowding the lanes, a brown sparrow against their bright red uniforms, that caught Victoire's fleeting attention.

Alice paused, for she saw the old woman's intention, and could not help wondering why she should lie.

"Ah, you are very like the gentleman who was so generous—such dark eyes…" She spoke before Victoire's dismissal could be voiced, her tone warm with remembrance.

"What?" Victoire's response was sharp, and Alice held her tongue, blinking rapidly as the visions crept in and out of focus, the result of this very conversation.

"Very similar—he must have been a relation," the old woman concluded with a nod of her head.

"This gentleman—what was his name?" Victoire asked, black eyes narrow, her curiosity clearly piqued.

Alice studied the old woman with equal curiosity, wondering at her motives. Under any other circumstance, she may not have noted the presence of the woman, who simply appeared to be one of the many unfortunate émigrés crowding England's southern counties, all of their relations lost to the revolution—or Bonaparte's wars. Her cloak was worn and faded, the straw brim of her bonnet fraying at the edge. She was so bent over her cane that Alice could not fully discern her features.

"A handsome young gentleman," the old woman responded. "He shared his name but it was some weeks ago…"

"You must remember," Victoire insisted.

The old woman nodded, "If Mademoiselle might share a bit of wine with an old woman, I'm certain I will recall."

Victoire nodded impatiently and Alice wondered if the old woman knew what a dangerous game she played. But there was no fear in her demeanor as she led them to a small inn where the common room was only partly filled with merchants, soldiers, and travelers escaping the bracing wind outside.

Once they were seated, the old woman removed her worn bonnet with a relieved sigh, as if happy to rest her bones. It was only when the brim of her bonnet no longer obscured her features that Alice saw her eyes were not the same color, an uncanny mix of faded blue and sharp green.

"But we were speaking of the gentleman," she continued once a glass of wine was before her. "I believe he said his name…" She scratched her chin. "Marson? Moisan?" She tilted her head, as if thinking—though Alice could easily see she had no intention of putting them in the path of Edward Maçon. Her only goal was to deter them, to mislead them as much as she was able. But why?

"Ma çon?" Victoire asked eagerly, leaning forward. "He was here, in Dover?"

"Oh, yes," the old woman nodded with easy confidence. "Though he said he could not stay long—that he was seeking a lost relation he was certain was in England." Her uncanny gaze shifted so briefly to Alice that she might have thought she imagined it.

Fortunately, Victoire was unconcerned with what had brought Edward to England; she only wished to know where he had gone next. "Did he mention where he intended to go?"

"North, I believe," the old woman nodded again, demonstrating that same easy confidence. "Colchester? Clacton?" She laughed. "All of these English names sound the same to me." She took a sip of her wine.

"Coastal towns," Alice finally spoke, her voice a low murmur. Though she had no idea why the old woman had crossed their path with her easy lies, she could see the misdirection had darkened the visions that had started to crystalize into reality once they'd boarded the ship in Calais.

Victoire turned to her young companion, dark eyes questioning. "Do you think it could be true?"

Alice frowned, as if struggling to see before replying with a hint of frustration, "I am uncertain, Mademoiselle." She turned to fully face her captor. "But I can see no reason this route is any more unreasonable than any other." She lifted a shoulder, as if it were up to the fates.

It was only after a futile search through Corringham that Alice was struck by a vision so decisive that she knew she must take action. Victoire's mood was foul, livid after days of searching without any confirmation that a pale French gentleman with dark hair and equally dark eyes had been present in any of the towns they'd passed through so far. As the carriage rattled towards Basildon, the mood in the cab was black; Alice huddled in the corner, as still as stone and utterly silent—though she could see it would do her little good in deflecting Victoire's bile.

"I have half a notion to return to Dover and hunt down that old crone," she spat, fists clenched in her lap.

Alice thought to reply, lips parting, but she quickly saw that any attempt to support the old woman's lie would only increase Victoire's ire. Her mouth snapped shut and she looked ahead, struggling to see what Victoire intended…

Only, the capricious redhead was too impulsive, too indecisive. Alice's visions jumped between a furious, hurried return to Dover, before a flash of the city she'd seen several times before appeared…followed by a vision more solid than any she'd yet seen. France. Montcarvel. The fields of barley were golden in the sunshine, the figure of a dark-haired woman she knew to be her mother stretching to reach a heavy line swaying with drying shifts and petticoats, dresses and linens.

"London," Alice gasped the word as if possessed, and she was glad to see the abruptness with which she spoke, and the urgency in her voice, were utterly convincing to Victoire.

"London?"

"He makes his way to London." She squinted, feigning an inability to see all she could. "His objective has changed…temporarily."

Victoire's hand was on her wrist, a tight, insistent grip. "London? If he isn't looking for you, then what does he seek…?" Her voice grew thoughtful as the vise of her hand slowly loosened. "We'll have to change carriages in Basildon…but it isn't so far, a short journey up the river…"

Alice struggled to conceal the relief she felt as she saw Victoire was now convinced Edward had traveled north before diverting west to London. The visions of a return to France had faded, though she now felt a tightness in her chest at the thought of what might await in London. How would she continue to put off the determined vampire?

Visions flickered in and out of focus, but nothing would solidify, forming an image that she could anchor to, that she could drive towards. She saw Victoire and the dark haired man clashing like two wild animals intent on tearing one another apart; she saw city streets filled with sunshine, Victoire sweeping through the crowds of peddlers and urchins with a determined pace; she saw a spatter of blood, and Victoire's laughing features.

It was only after they'd found rooms near Bond Street that one vision finally solidified, unwavering and frighteningly clear. Like a portrait memorializing the occasion, she saw a priest hovering before a table, bible in hands, his expression warm and benevolent as he spoke the words that would bind the couple before him in matrimony.

She saw the figure of a slender woman with chestnut hair, smiling with tears in her eyes as she regarded a jeweled ring on her finger with a stunned gaze. Edward Maçon returned her gaze with apparent avid devotion as he spoke the words that made the smiling woman his wife.

Alice could see that sharing any of this with Victoire would result in a fit of rage of such magnitude that the sound of her screams and curses, and the crash of tossed dishes and furniture would draw many people to their door—and Victoire would happily slaughter whoever dared investigate. But Alice's continued silence did not appear to have any stabilizing effect upon the future; her visions continued to skitter in and out of focus, erratic and unclear in the days that followed. She saw Montcarvel. She saw London. She saw a desolate manor house perched upon a cliff, rain lashing from the sky as the ocean crashed below.

But Victoire was running out of what little patience she had as her search of London's inns, gaming halls, and gentlemen's' clubs bore no fruit. She was infuriated that there had been no trace of Edward Maçon for the entirety of their time in England—but for the uncanny crone they'd encountered in Dover. And she was increasingly disbelieving that Alice was unable to see anything of his whereabouts.

"How did you know it was London?" Her hands were like vises around Alice's wrists, brows low over black eyes, teeth gritted as she spoke.

"The-the buildings," Alice stuttered. "Marble, glass—" She desperately searched her mind, aware her gaze fluttered suspiciously around the room with the lie. "The bridges! I knew it could be no other place, Mademoiselle."

"But _where_ in London?" Victoire demanded. "You _must_ have seen more than that!" Alice's vision briefly went dark, filled with the image of her own lifeless body, black eyes blank and unseeing—and she knew that Victoire had just contemplated ending her existence. Her eyes sank shut, shaking her head as desperation filled her veins. But Victoire was shaking her, like a disobedient dog she wouldn't hesitate to torment. "If I find you have been keeping the truth from me, Alice—" There was a flash of Montcarvel, of golden fields of barley, the stooping figure of her mother as she hung a damp petticoat on the line—

"In the City—the City!" Alice gasped, eyes wide and full of fear as she blurted the words aloud. "I see him in the City—on business," she sagged as Victoire's grip loosened. She could only desperately hope that the location she'd landed upon revealing would prove innocuous—that unlike the priest's rooms or the townhouse near the green of cultivated parks and squares, it would not lead to imminent death and destruction. "A solicitor's office—within sight of the cathedral," she gasped.

"St. Paul's?" Victoire asked, stepping back.

Alice could only weakly nod.

"Well done, _mon petite_," Victoire purred. Before Alice could say anything more, she was gone.

As the minutes passed, Alice watched the visions come, black eyes growing wide, her lips parting with horror. Slowly, she crumpled to the floor, unable to bear what she had wrought with her words, trembling with the force of her guilt and sorrow. She tried to push away the images, to make a decision that would push the terrible future back into the shadows. She thought of fleeing the rooms, tracking Victoire, intervening somehow. She tried to plan finding Edward Maçon before Victoire could, to warn him and perhaps avert disaster. But it was all too late. Nothing was going to deter Victoire.

Alice saw a spatter of blood. She saw papers strewn every which way, as though snow had fallen to the worn wooden floors. She saw Victoire, her gaze tinted red, her smile so satisfied that Alice could not doubt she had discovered Edward Maçon's true whereabouts.

The moan that emerged from her throat was like that of a dying animal, like that of a child that has suddenly understood they will never return home again.


	33. Revenge

_Thanks to MariahajilE for letting me know two of my stories were nominated for a Twific Fandom Award. It's very flattering - and I'll have to use the nominees as a to-read list once this story is done._

_Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review. _

* * *

><p><em>And then such a revenge to gratify; which is only at present…reined in, eventually to break forth with greater fury—<em>

_Clarissa, or the History of a Young Lady  
><em>_Samuel Richardson_

**thirty three**

Victoire lifted her skirts in gloved hands as she picked her way through the manure littering Bond Street; rain had begun to lightly fall from the sky, slowly liquefying the mix of dust, soot, and animal droppings. _Filthy city_, Victoire thought, nose wrinkling with disdain. She did not allow her thoughts to be fully reflected in her expression, however, for she could sense the attention she drew from the men and women passing by. Perhaps it was her red hair, artfully curled beneath the military-style hat she wore, the bronze braid along the base of the tall crown matching the braid trimming her spencer. Perhaps it was her unnaturally fair skin, unmarred by freckles despite the summer months. Perhaps it was the grace with which she crossed the busy thoroughfare, dodging the tangle of phaetons, curricles, and carriages. Or perhaps it was the hint of scarlet dancing in her black eyes, though she was careful to allow her gaze to rest in one place for no longer than a moment.

"Alice!" she allowed her voice to trill up the stairs as she reached the inn where she had taken rooms several weeks before. "Alice, darling!" she removed her hat as she climbed the stairs, a smile curling over her lips as she entered the sitting room; it was small but richly furnished with chairs upholstered in pale blue damask, painted fire screens, and bright carpets covering the floorboards.

"Oh, come, my dear—you have no greeting in kind for me?"

"Mademoiselle Victoire," Alice's voice was soft, and her dark eyes did not rise from her lap. Victoire had long ago decided that the girl was daft—it was the only thing that could explain her dumb muteness, the frequent blankness of her countenance, and the measured, deliberate manner in which she spoke.

"You were right, _mon petit cheri_," Victoire announced as she tossed her hat on a table near the door and swept towards a chair. As she settled her skirts around her legs, she leaned towards Alice with a conspiratorial smile, "Once night falls, I will make my way to Half Moon street and…"

But she was not entirely certain what she intended. She had first been curious as to what had motivated Edward to leave the young French girl alive…but once it became clear that Alice was blessed with a strange gift, she could only conclude that Edward had somehow known and wanted to use the girl to his own advantage. How powerful might he be with his ability to hear thoughts and Alice's gift of premonition! Victoire shook her head, lips thinning.

"Very well, Mademoiselle," Alice's reply was delayed and so quiet that Victoire might have been unable to hear it had she been human. Shaking her head again, Victoire ignored the strange girl as she stood and drew off her gloves. She had no time to spare a thought for Alice's odd habits now that she was certain of Edward's whereabouts…

But as Victoire stealthily made her way towards the wealthy environs of Mayfair, she hesitated in the unrelieved darkness; she had been certain to wait until after midnight, when all of the street lamps were set to burn out as she preferred no human be able to trace her to what was certain to be a bloody business. The neighborhood was so quiet, however, she began to realize she would have no advantage of surprise; Edward was certain to hear her thoughts the moment she drew near.

A grin curled over her lips. Very well then, she thought. Let him hear her coming.

Victoire nearly flew the remaining distance, her figure a blur that only the keenest of eyes could detect—but she scented no human on the quiet streets—only the damp of cobblestones still wet from that afternoon's rain, the heavier reek of coal smoke, and traces of horses that had since been stabled for the night.

She was without hesitation when she reached the front stairs, though her ears detected only silence from the darkened townhouse; she quickly forced the door open, the crack of the lock like the snapping of a branch, unlikely to draw notice. She slipped inside and shut the door behind her in one smooth motion—but abruptly drew to a halt as her senses were overwhelmed by the strong, unexpected scent of humans.

The stench of food mixed with the faintest hint of sweat, the acrid smokiness of coal fires that had only been extinguished a few hours before, and fainter still, the warm honey smell of vampire. Had she not known it as well as she knew her own coy features in the looking glass, she would not have recognized it for the overwhelming stink of humans.

For she knew this much to be true—this could not possibly be the scent of a single human, a hackney driver lingering on the stoop, or a footman with a message waiting in the hall. There had been a staff of humans here, cooking, cleaning, fetching, carrying, sleeping and eating. As she moved through the darkness, her footsteps audible against the marble floors, a frown furrowed her brow for she could not imagine the reason why. Why would Edward have taken on such a risk when she remembered him as having been so cautious? Why would he have hired servants when he had no need of their help? Why would he have tolerated the rank smell of cooking meat and vegetables when it was not necessary?

Victoire rifled through the rooms on the ground floor but found no answers. Edward's scent was strongest in the library, and she pictured him there, long pale fingers trailing over the spines of books marching along the shelves…but there were no answers as to why he would have hired servants, or where everyone had so suddenly gone.

She climbed the stairs to the upper floor and quickly darted in and out of rooms that she could easily tell had remained unused, the scent of dust hanging on the air, the bed curtains giving off only the acrid fragrance of lye and pearlash. Her pace was impatient as she returned to the corridor, but her feet began to slow as she reached the final bedchamber from which waves of fragrance emanated.

"It can't be true," she murmured to herself, eyes widening in the unrelieved darkness of the abandoned townhouse. "How can it be true?"

But as she slowly, reluctantly turned into the bedchamber, she could not deny the mix of fragrances washing over her senses—human and vampire, so intimately entwined that the letter she found in the single drawer of the nightstand was simply confirmation of what she already knew to be true. The words echoed in her head as the letter shook in her hand:

_For of this I am certain: he loves me. It begs all reason, all logical thought—but he loves me. _

And yet, Victoire could not deny how her anger flamed into fury upon re-reading the words this impertinent chit had dared to put to paper, her lips curling into a snarl.

_Wed to a human?_ She could scarcely believe it! But proof surrounded her, in the scent upon the bed linens, in the toiletries upon the dressing table, in the servants that must have been hired to see to this girl's every need.

The letter was in shreds before Victoire was conscious of having decided to tear it into pieces so small, no one would ever be able to discern what the ink had once said. The dressing table was toppled in one swift movement, the looking glass shattering into a hundred shards, dully reflecting the sliver of moon light glimmering through the window.

"How dare he?!"

She thought of the gaunt, pale boy she'd rescued from the steps of Saint Denis, stubble darkening his cheeks, his countenance furrowed with worry and hunger. Her hands curled into fists as she thought of how she had saved him from misery and deprivation, clothing him and feeding him. She thought of how she had taken him to her bed, all sleek muscles and warmth, his breath fragrant with the wine she had plied him with to distract him from her cool skin. Her chest heaved with needless breaths as she thought of how she had surprised even herself by choosing to take him with her to Orléans when she had grown tired of Paris.

Victoire ripped the curtains from the bed frame as she remembered how flushed his face had been when he had fallen ill, how he had tossed and turned, delirious with fever. She had never thought to change him, had never been capable of restraining herself from drinking her fill once the blood met her tongue. But as she had watched him weaken, unable to eat or drink, the doctors unable to do anything but recommend more bleeding, it had occurred to her that she did not have to let him go.

And he had walked away. He had walked away as if the time they had spent together meant nothing. He had left as though she had not granted him a gift greater than any material good; she had granted him life beyond death…and he had walked away.

Victoire did not admit to herself that she had rarely thought of Edward after the initial shock of his rejection had subsided. It rankled her pride whenever she happened to encounter him in passing, and she could never resist taunting him for his ridiculous disregard for the natural order of things when she did. Her lip curled as she recalled his distaste for taking human life, refusing to hunt once the initial effects of the change had waned.

"You said…" his voice had nearly shaken as he spoke, "You said you went to hospitals…prisons…" He had covered his eyes with his hand, as if he could not bear to look at her.

"They are cattle!" she had shouted, unable to understand why he couldn't see reason. "And we are prey culling the herd!" She refused to feel ashamed as he had simply shaken his head, unwilling to argue any further.

It had not been her goal to happen upon him in Calais; she had simply lingered there as she had in many other port towns, Nice, Marseilles, Nantes, because disappearances there were rarely noted…and when a missing human somehow managed to attract attention, it was typically weeks or months later. With so many soldiers, refugees, and fortune-seekers coming and going, it was rare that one sniveling human was missed. She had been surprised to glimpse Edward in the crowds around the docks, as if freshly returned from some foreign land. And she had been unable to resist appeasing her curiosity, following at a safe distance as she was well aware of his special talents.

Victoire gazed around the bedchamber with narrow eyes, uncertain whether her temper was entirely appeased. A small part of her knew that nothing she did in this moment would change Edward's choices, but her pride would not allow her to forget such an offense. Wed to a human? She could not imagine Edward abandoning his search for Alice without very good cause. It was difficult to believe a mewling human could so distract him. There simply had to be more to the tale than a blind infatuation.

The creak of hinges abruptly ceased this line of thinking, and Victoire froze, listening with keen hearing for the source of the noise.

"Is someone there?" a masculine voice called from the floor below.

A pleased smile curled over Victoire's lips before she opened her mouth to reply.

~ • ~

Isabella longed to feel the sunlight against her skin.

London seemed a memory, a too brief reprieve from the frightened flight and hiding she'd endured these past weeks. It seemed as if the hours she had spent in the parks and gardens there were born of her imagination; her ears echoed with the shouts of children splashing in the waters of the Serpentine, and the whisper of the wind in the leaves of the linden trees. Her gaze blurred, eyes wide and unseeing, as she recalled the slender figures of ladies promenading along Rotten Row, blushing faces shaded by the brims of fashionable bonnets.

The windows of her bedchamber overlooked the rear of the brick house where Carlisle Cullen resided on the outskirts of Oxford; the garden behind the house was no more tamed than the tangle of cockscomb, daisies and lavender bordering shaggy hedges at the front of the house. An abandoned herb garden overflowed with peppermint that had grown wild near the rear door, while flowers rioted over the slate stone path curving towards the rear gate. Oaks and goat willows crowded around a wrought iron fence that was largely lost to the waving flowers and shrubs, boughs gently swaying in the breeze.

Isabella might have sworn that the leaves of the tallest oaks had begun to fade, rich green shifting to a dull jade that would soon grow yellow with the changing of the seasons. Had so much time passed? Had she been confined to the house near Wytham Wood for so long?

The first few days had been all tension and fear. She had started at every noise and had been unable to sleep for any length of time once night had fallen. To her relief, Carlisle had been willing to patrol the perimeter of the house in the evenings, allowing Edward to remain with her in her bedchamber, soothing her whenever she woke, near tears and drenched in sweat.

This then meant that there were stretches of time during the day in which she was alone with the golden-haired vampire, restlessly pacing while he reclined in an armchair, supposedly intent upon the book he was reading. She had not known how to behave with her host after her initial outburst, and had been too filled with anxiety when Edward was absent patrolling the nearby roads and woods to care for manners and formalities.

She had been lingering before the windows of the drawing room when she was dragged from these thoughts of worry by Carlisle's voice, reflective and filled with faint surprise. "You do love him."

Isabella had turned from the window, her expression indicating her own surprise at his statement.

"Of course I do." Her brow furrowed. "Why else should I have married him?"

Carlisle had looked away, his countenance indicating his discomfort.

"Did you suspect I was afraid of him?" Isabella asked, unable to conceal a tone of annoyance as she wondered if Carlisle had reached some new conclusion about the nature of her relationship with Edward.

"No, no," Carlisle protested, his amber gaze returning to her figure. His expression was open and honest, and Isabella subsided as she realized he had meant no offense. "Obligation, perhaps." He lifted a shoulder. "After all, Edward has kept you safe, he has protected you."

Isabella could not help a sharp laugh at this, her eyes briefly closing before she shook her head. "I had the same concern—on Edward's behalf rather than my own."

Carlisle's lips parted with apparent surprise, and he appeared unable to speak for a brief moment before he asked, "You tried to beg off?"

Isabella nodded, her lips twisting with a wry smile as she saw Carlisle's confusion and surprise only increase. "You should not be so stunned, Mr. Cullen." Her smile softened. "It is entirely possible to find love, regardless of your nature."

His gaze had abruptly fallen to the forgotten book in his lap and she thought she saw him swallow, as if stunned into silence by her words. Her eyes had slowly widened with the dawning understanding that this was at least some of the source of his outrage and dismay upon learning that she was human. She knew from details Edward had shared following their arrival that Carlisle had been changed not long before Edward, but that he had never fed from humans, refusing to have anything to do with the few vampires he had come across in his long existence.

As she watched him sit in mute shock, his gaze unable to rise from the discarded book in his lap, she knew with sudden clarity just how shocking her arrival had been to him. Carlisle had always expected to be alone. Carlisle had never presumed to find what Edward had somehow discovered in Isabella—an ability to accept the truth.

A movement beyond the window had drawn Isabella's attention, and she had spoken, distracted from these thoughts, "Edward has returned!" she smiled as she turned from the window panes, and she realized it was the first time the expression had not been tinged with tension or unease while in Carlisle's company. To her surprise, Carlisle's responding smile was equally easy, his expression almost indulgent as he watched her hurry from the room to greet Edward in the corridor.

From that point on, it was as if an understanding had been reached. Carlisle was no longer stiff and awkward in their presence, even joining them for the meals where Isabella was the only one to eat. When Edward ventured out to see if he could detect any trace of Victoire's presence, Isabella found the only source of tension for her was Edward's absence rather than the host she had not been entirely certain welcomed her presence.

As the days passed, she even found Carlisle was an ally in speculating that Victoire could not possibly have tracked them to Oxford. He even wondered if she was truly responsible for the death of Edward's solicitor.

"How can you be certain?"

Edward had thrust his hands in his hair in frustration, his gaze nearly wild as he shot to his feet. The two vampires had accompanied Isabella to the drawing room following the evening meal; there was no need to pretend to enjoy a snifter of claret as the cook had departed for the day. Both Edward and Carlisle had determined it was too great a risk to have servants residing in the house when it wasn't entirely necessary. The lady's maid and other staff had been dismissed within hours of their arrival, Carlisle explaining that his guests were only stopping for a night rather than for the summer months he had originally anticipated. Isabella had attempted to express no surprise with the ease with which the angelic vampire had lied.

"There has been no evidence that she is truly here in England, much less as near as Oxford," Carlisle continued.

"My solicitor was not murdered by brigands," Edward shot back between gritted teeth. "He and his clerk were both gone but for the—" He glanced to Isabella, unwilling to divulge any further details in her presence. He did not want her to be able to picture the cascade of papers that had nearly covered the floor of the cramped office, nor the red flecks of blood that spattered the inky sheets.

"So you're certain it was a vampire—but why should it be Victoire? Perhaps it was some other mercenary creature, curious as to your activities," Carlisle speculated, though even his expression reflected his doubt on the theory.

"Even if that were the case, I would hardly be reassured by the idea," Edward replied, his tone sardonic and nearing exasperation.

"Has there been any evidence of her presence nearby?" Isabella had quietly asked, indicating her own growing doubts on the matter. So much time had passed—it did not seem probable that if Victoire had been so close, she would refrain from acting.

"No," Edward replied sharply, before sighing as he realized he should not express his ire with her. "But she has demonstrated her skill in evading my notice in the past." He clutched his hair more tightly. "She is well aware of my abilities and the need to keep her distance to avoid my notice." He pictured Alice's figure, crumpled and lifeless in the fields outside Montcarvel. No one would taunt him as Victoire would.

So the weeks had passed and Isabella had done little more than pace the rooms of Carlisle's house, increasingly restless and chafing at the restraints of her confinement. She longed to explore the woods opposite the brick house, to duck beneath the drooping boughs of the weeping willows and feel the give of the loamy ground beneath her feet. As the days dragged on and she grew weary of trying to occupy herself with books in Carlisle's small study—mostly religious or medical texts—her desires grew circumscribed. If only she could step into the surrounding gardens, feel the tug of the breeze against her skirts, trail her hands through the tangle of lavender near the door, pluck some of the peppermint to hang from the eaves of the kitchen...

But she hesitated to ask if it was possible to enjoy even this small freedom, reluctant to add to Edward's worries by expressing any dissatisfaction with her circumstances. She recalled his orders when they had first arrived in London, biding her to stay inside, and to stay away from the windows. She remembered her own foolish flight from the inn at Bridestowe, and Edward's fear and frustration when he had found her lost in the woods.

So she did not ask if it was possible to walk in the gardens. But as she lingered in her bedchamber, reluctant to venture belowstairs simply to pace the rooms in anticipation of she knew not what, she could not help her frustration as she gazed over the trees, certain she could see the changing of the seasons in the fading of the leaves. Was this to be her fate, locked away from every threat to her being?

With a huff of exasperation, Isabella spun away from the window, slamming from the bedchamber with a force she did not intend. But it seemed as if it had been an age since she had stretched her limbs, her muscles twitching with the desire to move, to run, to clamber over fences and happen upon whatever secrets the woods around her held.

When she reached the corridor, she hesitated only a moment before striding towards the rear of the house, where she knew the larder and kitchen would lead to the garden. The rooms were empty for the cook had gone to the market that morning and would not return until it was time to prepare the evening meal; the shadowed space was cool without the heat of the fire, the smell of herbs and spices heavy on the air. She was nearly to the rear door of the house when she felt a gust of air stir her hair, and knew that Carlisle was behind her.

"Does Edward know?" There was no denying the anxiety in his voice and she turned to see the emotion also evident in his expression. His brows were knit together, his amber eyes filled with concern as his hands hovered in mid-air. Isabella presumed he wished to physically stop her but was too much of a gentleman to lay his hands on her person.

"What is there to tell him?" Isabella asked with lifted brows. "I merely wish to take a turn in the garden. Must it be so momentous?"

"I—well, no," Carlisle stuttered. Isabella watched in silence as his lips opened and closed several times, apparently attempting to land upon an argument that would convince her. Finally, his shoulders sank with acceptance before he quietly asked, "May I accompany you?"

"Of course," Isabella smiled, before opening the door and stepping into the verdant space, bright and warmed by the sun.

Carlisle did not hover at her side as she slowly took a turn through the garden, instead following at a distance of a few paces. Isabella realized she was grateful for it, that she preferred feeling as if it was not necessary that he provide protection—protection she was not entirely certain she required. She turned her face towards the sun, uncaring of her bare head, glad to feel the warmth of it upon her skin. The scent of things green and growing was almost heady, the sound of insects buzzing and birds distantly chittering filling her ears.

Isabella spent some time in this manner, simply exploring the green space within the wrought iron fence behind the brick house. She explored all that had tempted her from the window of her bedchamber, stooping to part the fronds of peppermint to see what other herbs might be burrowing from the ground, plucking a bud of lavender to twirl between her fingers, scuffing her toes over the slate stone path to push back the moss that had begun to creep over the gray surface.

She nearly forgot Carlisle's presence as she returned to the kitchen and re-appeared with a set of shears. She even began to hum as she set about cutting a bundle of lavender she intended to hang in the linen cupboard. Then looking up and seeing the sun was still high in the sky, she decided to begin trimming back some of the wilder hedges, her expression one of contentment as she lost herself in the task.

It was only when her fingers were green with sap and her hand was aching with the endeavor that she looked up to see Carlisle had retrieved a chair from inside; he reclined, visibly relaxed, one ankle hooked over his knee, amber gaze trained on the book in his hands. "Do you think you might fetch a book for me while I clean my hands?" she asked, smiling.

Carlisle nodded, responding, "Of course," before gracefully rising and turning to go inside. Isabella was on his heels and quickly found a rag in the kitchen on which to wipe her hands. She glanced down to her morning gown, a simple garment in ivory muslin, and grimaced as she saw leaves clinging to her skirts, clippings from the hedges she had been trimming. She was bent, brushing at her skirt, as she stepped back towards the door and returned to the garden.

Isabella did not straighten because her task was finished, for there were dozens of small, spiny leaves still clinging to the fabric. She straightened because she was certain someone was present, her breath caught in her throat, her skin prickling with sudden goose bumps.

Only she found herself smiling brightly, wondering why she would have reacted so when she knew very well who it was. She briefly wondering why he lingered at the back gate rather than knocking at the front door as she called, "McCarty!"

She lifted a hand to wave but his gaze was trained on his feet, his shoulders hunched around his ears. Her mind swirled with speculations as she hurried down the slate path to greet him, wondering if he was looking for work, or simply concerned about their abrupt departure from London—or had other news that he wished to share…but she drew to an abrupt halt when she was still several paces from the Scotsman, suddenly certain something was very wrong.

He was not the same. She could not first identify what had changed, her lungs pushing against her stays with the fear that accompanied the realization. "McCarty…?" His name was a whisper, her eyes wide as she tried to reconcile the jovial young man who had once served in their house with the too pale creature standing before her.

McCarty's gaze rose from his feet and it was this which prompted her to take an instinctive step back, so great was her shock, one hand jerking up to cover her parted lips.

"You'll have to come with me, ma'am." His eyes…his eyes were no longer the light blue she recalled, dancing with laughter even when he endeavored to appear as serious as his duties demanded. Instead, his eyes were scarlet, shocking and red, unnatural and terrifying.

"I…" Isabella took another step back but he was suddenly before her, moving with a swiftness she knew all too well.

"Please don't fight, ma'am," McCarty begged, and Isabella's head swam with confusion for she recognized the humanity in his voice, the desire not to hurt her, the regret he felt as he placed his hands on her upper arms…but she knew he was changed, that what he intended could not possibly bode well for her.

"McCarty, no!" she cried, attempting to wrench from his grip. But he was strong, too strong, as strong as Edward…if not stronger, his massive figure looming over her, blocking out the sun.

"Ma'am," McCarty's voice was pained. "I'm so sorry."

Isabella did not see his fist rise up, the movement too fast for her eyes to discern. She only saw a burst of white, her ears ringing…before the world went abruptly black.


	34. Despair

_My intention is never to cause heart fails - I always forget I know what's happening next and no one else does! Hopefully this early update makes up for the cliffhanger. Thank you so much for reading & reviewing._

* * *

><p><strong>PART THREE: THE KEY<strong>

_'__O, fie! fie! you know she will be cruel to excruciation! you know me destined to despair to the last degree.'_

_Camilla, or, A Picture of Youth  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**thirty four**

Isabella's fingers curled inward, certain she held Edward's hand, her brow furrowing as she found her nails only digging into her palm. She struggled to open her eyes but they were gritty and swollen, and her head pounded with the effort. "Edward," his name was a pained murmur, for she had been so certain he was there with her, that he was at her side. But as her eyes flickered open, the reality of her circumstances abruptly returned, and she had to choke back a sob as she recalled all that had passed.

The turret was barren, the stone floors uncovered, the narrow openings in the curved walls boasting only battered shutters that were missing slats, like a ragged smile that allowed the sea wind to rip through the small chamber. Isabella had stumbled to these shutters the moment she'd regained her senses, throwing them back with eager hands only to gasp with despair as she saw the steep drop to the roiling ocean below. Refusing to give up hope, she had gone to each narrow window, only to find that none offered any chance of escape.

Her gaze had darted desperately around the chamber, but one narrow door only led to an ancient, reeking garderobe while the other was heavy wood, solid and firmly locked. She looked for a weapon, something heavy she might lift and use to defend herself from her captors—but the room was bare, empty of furnishings but for a single thin pallet filled with straw, the wool blanket folded upon it stinking of horse and sweat.

But Isabella soon found she was grateful for the unwashed blanket, curling up on the pallet as the sun sank over the horizon and the already cool turret became bitterly cold. She shivered in her thin morning gown, the blanket wrapped around her frame, lip caught beneath her teeth as she struggled to calm herself, struggled to find the easy tranquility that would allow her to call to Edward.

She pictured him there, with her in the barren turret, forcing her breathing to grow easy and calm though she was filled with fear and uncertainty. Her eyes sank shut as she pictured him crossing the small room, the heels of his boots tapping against the stone floor, his gold-flecked eyes wry and loving as he offered her his hand. _Edward_, she thought, remembering the sight of him beneath the waters of Tiller's spring. _Edward_, she begged, brow furrowing, fighting back tears. _Edward, please_.

But she remained alone in the turret, fighting rising panic and despair.

Isabella wondered if it was her ignorance of where she was that prevented Edward from finding her. She tried to recall anything from the time after Emmett McCarty had appeared in the garden, but it was all darkness. As she touched her temple with tentative hands, she could feel the swelling there, the skin tender, pain pulsing in her head. Her eyes sank shut as she tried to push away the thought of McCarty's scarlet gaze, but one memory became clear as she paced the cold turret, struggling to remember the journey to this remote, northern place.

She had woken from the stupor resulting from the terrible blow to her head, and had immediately begun to panic, struggling against the ropes that tightly bound her wrists and ankles. She had been filled with memories of the terrible journey to Tiller's spring, pebbles dashing against her legs and shoulders as the mob shouted threats and curses. Light had abruptly filled the enclosure—was it a chest? A cupboard? She couldn't know. But McCarty was gazing at her with almost equal panic, his scarlet eyes filled with fear.

"Ma'am, you must be quiet—please!" As if from a distance, she could sense the desperation in his demeanor, but she could not do as he bid, a scream erupting from her throat.

"Ma'am!" Before she could take a breath, he had stuffed a rag in her mouth, and she was again surrounded by darkness. She had tried to thrash, to free herself, but the space was so small and confined that she could barely move. At some point, either due to the stuffiness of the enclosure, or her own growing panic, she had lost consciousness.

Was this why Edward was unable to find her? Had she traveled too far? And she had been insensible of her surroundings until she awoke, disoriented and groggy, in this desolate turret. Did he think her dead, certain that she would have called him had she been able? _Edward_, she begged, shivering on the pallet. _Oh, Edward._

Isabella could not recriminate herself enough for her idiocy as the silent hours passed, the only sound the sad grumble of her stomach and the wind whipping through the broken shutters. Why had she insisted on venturing outside? Why had she refused to take Edward's concerns seriously? Perhaps that was all Victoire had been waiting for, some fault that would allow her to act—and Isabella had provided the perfect opening. Hadn't she indulged her impulse to enjoy the gardens when Edward was patrolling because she was all too aware he would forbid it? She had taken advantage of Carlisle's gentlemanly nature, certain he would not dare to stop her, and now he was likely bearing the burden of being responsible for her capture. But she knew the only person she could fault was herself.

Isabella choked back bitter tears, wondering how long McCarty would leave her to the confines of the turret. She had no doubt he acted on Victoire's behalf, that the poor footman had likely been caught in the snares of the vengeful vampire after she and Edward had so suddenly departed London. She could see no other reason for his reluctance, his panic, his apologies as he had dragged her to this abandoned place.

She had continued to peer out the windows in those first days, trying to get a sense of her bearings. Because she knew it was McCarty who had brought her here, she wondered if it was Scotland, squinting in an effort to make out any landmark. But there was little to see from the turret, the ocean white and frothing with the fury of the wind; she saw no ships pass in the distance but would have torn her gown from her body to flag one down had there been any chance she might be seen. The single window that held a sliver of land within its view looked over desolate dunes, the sparse grass that speared from the ground nearly flat with the constant wind.

_Edward, oh, Edward_. His name became a litany, a prayer, all of her flagging energy focused on summoning him, on bringing him to her. He had to find her. He must.

But as the sun repeatedly rose and set upon the empty landscape beyond the turret windows, she began to despair. Perhaps it was all her imagination; perhaps she had no powers to speak of, the entire incident at Tiller's spring a terrible nightmare she had not survived. Isabella began to fear she had died that night, that the interlude with Edward had been nothing but a dream. As she grew faint with hunger, her mind began to play cruel tricks upon her. Isabella began to imagine her summoning had been successful, that Edward was with her, his features filled with forgiveness as he drew her to her feet and pulled her into his arms.

When she awoke from a dazed dream, hand curling with the imagined sensation of Edward's fingers wrapped around her own, it had taken all of her will power not to cry with frustration. She longed to pound her fists on the barren floor until her hands were bloody and torn. Isabella jumped to her feet, determined to bang on the door as she had done that first day, determined to be heard—then abruptly staggered as her head swam.

It was then that she saw the hardened roll of bread just inside the door. But was this another hallucination brought on by hunger? She stumbled towards the vision, exhaling with satisfaction when her hands found only solid substance, flour flaking against her palms as she tore into the stale bread. It was perhaps more delicious than anything she had ever eaten.

Isabella shook her head as she chewed, unwilling to think how many days had passed since she had eaten. She wondered if this was Victoire's goal, to drive her mad with the desperation of isolation, and hunger, and fear—to keep her on the brink of survival until she could no longer bear it. But where was her captor? Who had come into the turret while she slept, leaving this bread as sustenance? And where was Edward?

Isabella awoke that night with a start, certain someone was present in the cold, silent chamber. Her eyes strained in the darkness, her pulse racing, wondering why her captor would choose to make their presence known now when they had the ability to steal in and out of the turret without her notice.

"Who goes there?" she asked, struggling to express a bravado she did not feel.

A pale face emerged from the darkness so abruptly that Isabella might have shrieked but for the hand that suddenly covered her lips.

"There isn't much time."

Isabella's eyes widened, her lips parting against the cool palm lying across her mouth. The pale face before her, framed by straight black hair, was unmistakably the same as that of the miniature in the locket Edward carried with him.

"Alice," she exhaled, though the sound was muted by the vampire's hand.

"Your husband cannot come," Alice spoke quickly, the words a flurried whisper.

Isabella froze, then struggled to push away Alice's hand, to argue with the small girl looming over her in the darkness. But she was impossibly strong, and Isabella found herself writhing with no effect, longing to protest against the words she had spoken. What could she mean!? Why was it not possible for Edward to find her!?

"It will change the course if he comes," Alice's voice was insistent, the urgency in her gaze such that Isabella found herself subsiding. It almost seemed as if the pale girl wished to help her, that she was trying to explain something Isabella could not quite grasp. "You must find strength without him."

Then she was gone, the only indication her presence had been real the muffled sound of the door closing in her wake. Stunned, Isabella tried to absorb that she had not been dreaming before she struggled to fling off the fetid blanket, stumbling towards the door and desperately yanking at the latch.

But it was firmly locked, and despite Alice's words, she could not help collapsing against it, panting with wretched sobs.

She could not make sense of it! Why should Alice be party to Victoire's efforts? Edward was convinced Victoire had changed the young girl—had she lingered long enough to witness Edward carry Alice away? And what could Alice have meant? What course would it change should Edward come? And how could Isabella possibly think to free herself when she was in no way equal to the strength of her captors? She could not even push away Alice's hand…

But it did not matter what Alice had said in the darkness, or what Isabella believed she was capable of, for the reality of the danger she was in became all too apparent the following morning. The turret was not yet fully light, the glow of dawn just beginning to spill through the broken slats of the shutters, when the heavy door crashed open and a figure swept into the room so swiftly that Isabella had no time to react, to cower, to scream in fright.

She was suspended, feet dangling, clutching at the hands that were wrapped around her throat, choking for air.

"Why hasn't he come for you?!" The snarling voice matched an alabaster face contorted with rage. Wild red hair framed features that might have been beautiful but for the terrifying fury twisting her lips, flaring her nostrils, and blazing from her scarlet eyes. Isabella instinctively struggled to tear at the hands around her throat, for Victoire's enraged face was rapidly shrinking to a single point of light, her head swimming as she could not breathe.

Then she was flying, her eyes flaring wide as her lungs filled with precious air—before she was crashing against the wall, crying out with the impact. _You must find strength without him_…Isabella tried to push away from the floor, to struggle to her feet, but her arms would not hold her weight, wincing at the pain radiating from her shoulder and back.

And it did not matter for Victoire was before her, dragging her to her feet by her arms as if she weighed no more than a doll, the fury in her countenance unabated. "Where is he, you pathetic creature?!" Victoire shook Isabella so violently that her head rocked back and forth on her neck, gasps bursting past her lips as she realized how futile it was to think to defend herself.

"How could he fail to come for you!?" Victoire flung her away again, but this time Isabella simply skittered across the hard floor, biting back a scream as her bruised shoulder dragged across the stones. She tried to shift, to push away from the floor, to find her feet and flee this place—but daggers of pain burst through her shoulder at the slightest motion, her eyes pricking with tears.

Isabella turned her head, helplessly watching as Victoire stalked towards her, unable to lift her gaze beyond the vampire's swirling skirts. She panted for breath as the vampire stooped, cold fingers wrapping around her jaw, forcing Isabella to turn her face and meet Victoire's scarlet gaze.

Frighteningly, the fury of a moment before was no longer evident in Victoire's ivory countenance; Isabella could not help from shuddering, for it was somehow more terrifying to know her beauty could conceal such violence and rage. "I grow weary of this misadventure," the words were low and filled with an intensity that indicated their sincerity. "I vowed I would tear you limb from limb and greet Edward with the pieces. And I'm growing tired of waiting."

Then she was gone, the door slamming with such force that Isabella thought the floor might have trembled. And though she tried to remember Alice's words, she could not help her features crumpling as the sobs shook from her throat.

Though he was nearly a mile distant, though he tried to focus on the roar of the ocean, the whistle of the wind in the high grasses, the crunch of the brittle grass beneath his boots, Emmett could not help covering his ears at the sound of Isabella's cries. He longed to drop to his knees, to press his forehead to the ground, to pound at the earth with his fists and tear his hair from his skull—but he knew nothing could erase that sound. Nothing could erase what he had done.

Emmett struggled to focus, to continue moving across the landscape, searching for any sign that his former master and the Oxford don with whom he'd been residing had made their way this far north. He struggled to train his gaze on his surroundings: on the sparse trees thinly marking the hillside, wind-blown and naked of any lower limbs; on the scrubby earth beneath his feet, the grass yellowed and patchy in this colder clime; on the white pall of the sky overhead, the milky expanse unmarked by flapping gulls or ravens.

Emmett found it was these small things to which he could not grow accustomed. He and his brother had often made a game of identifying and mimicking bird calls in Galashiels, and the silence which surrounded him now was deadening and strange. He still found himself reflexively blinking when the wind picked up, certain his eyes would begin watering. He could not bring himself to forget to breathe, that after four and twenty years of compulsive motion, a few months as a vampire could not break him of the habit.

His brow furrowed as his gaze scanned the meager woods around him, all of his senses attuned to the slightest sound. But there was no indication he was anything but alone in this bleak wilderness. He allowed his gaze to flicker to the manor house below the hillside, the worn stone walls merging into the landscape, the same earthen color as the barren environs. Only the high crenellated walls stood out against the gray of the roiling sea, geometric notches against the swirling waves. Faint sobs were carried by the wind to his ears, and he might have been able to tell himself it was the call of a gull but for the guilt weighing upon his soul.

Emmett sighed, sinking to the ground as he knew the cold would no longer leech into his bones, chilling him until his teeth began to chatter. He regarded his hands, pale and no longer marked by freckles or the faint blue of veins. He still struggled to believe at times that it could be true—that he could be dead but living, that his life as he had known it was over.

He lifted his head, squeezing his eyes shut as the sound of Isabella Maçon's sobs subsided. He would have done anything to avoid hurting her, but Alice had warned him.

"She will not go willingly."

Her small hand had lingered on his forearm, her black eyes earnest as she gazed up at him. "You are certain?"

Emmett had simply nodded in response, his lips thins, his expression grim. It was the least he could do for the dainty French girl. She had nodded in turn, before she snatched her hand from his arm and her features went abruptly blank. Emmett had taken a step back, knowing this indicated Victoire would return soon.

He had never quite accustomed himself to these sudden shifts in Alice's demeanor, struggling to reconcile the swift, bird-like girl with the slack, slow creature she became in Victoire's presence. But he had rapidly come to understand why it was necessary.

"Can he make himself ready?" The redhead had swept into the cellar without bothering to glance in Alice's direction, her black eyes fixed on Emmett, her gloved hands fisted in skirts that she held several inches above the earthen floor.

Alice's response was slow, her gaze vague and trained on a far corner of the room. "Another fortnight, perhaps, Mademoiselle…"

Victoire's head had whipped around, her gaze fixed on the petite girl with bristling impatience. "Another fortnight?" she had hissed, stalking towards Alice with a speed that would have revealed the truth of their nature had any human been present. "I grow weary of waiting, _ma fille_."

Alice had not reacted, her gaze blank, her response delayed before she finally answered, "He is not yet fully in control of himself, Mademoiselle." She lifted a shoulder, as if the matter did not overly concern her. "If he departs now, he will fail to make his way without risking exposure—or he will kill her in making the attempt."

Victoire had straightened, her temper subsiding. "This would not be such a terrible outcome," she tapped a finger against her bottom lip, regarding Alice with narrow eyes. Emmett remained silent, knowing that any attempt to defend the young French girl would only result in greater displays of temper from Victoire. She loathed any hint of a bond between the two vampires, her countenance immediately filling with suspicion as she blasted Alice with accusations of collusion and secrecy.

So Emmett remained silent, watching the woman who had changed him in stoic silence, longing to protest, to say something, to do anything. But Alice had warned him that Victoire was wily, and that no scenario in which he attacked the powerful vampire ended well. "You are strong but you are not accustomed to fighting, to using tactics that your new skills allow." Alice's black gaze was trained on her hands, her head bowed as she spoke in a low voice. "And she is certain I am responsible for your betrayal, and is intent upon killing me once you are disposed of."

It was only this that had tempered Emmett's anger and frustration, frustration that had seen the wooden walls of the cellar littered with holes roughly the size of his fists. For Alice had helped him from the first, coaxing him through the initial frenzied weeks of the change, dragging whimpering, snapping mongrels into the cellar to sate the terrible burn in his throat, and patiently explaining that if he ventured above ground he would be certain to take a human life.

He recalled little of the moments before he'd woken in the cellar, feverish and confused, the fire in his throat so pressing that his first words had been to plead for water.

"Please, Miss," he begged, his gaze finding the young girl seated on a stool in the far corner. He had been unable to understand how the room was so bright with only a single candle glowing from a lantern suspended near the door, or how the dank room could smell so strongly of honey—but none of it mattered when he was certain he might die of thirst. "Please—water…I must drink."

The young girl had risen from the stool, crossing to his side with a swiftness that sent him flinching towards the wall behind his cot. For he recalled that speed, unnatural and frightening—but demonstrated by someone else, someone beautiful and terrible with eyes that gleamed in the darkness.

Only she was different, softness and kindness apparent in her heart-shaped face as she gazed down at him with wide black eyes. She was small and would likely reach no higher than his chest if he were to stand by her side, but there was a wisdom and weariness in her features that indicated she was no child. Tendrils of straight black hair spilled from the simple mob cap upon her head, her pale blue gown partly covered by a clean apron. "I am very sorry, sir," her English was heavily accented but he found he had little difficulty in understanding her. "Water will be of no use to you."

An immediate question had risen to his mind, but she answered before the words passed his lips. "You are not dying, no," she shook her head, her black eyes filling with sadness and regret.

Emmett could barely attend to her words for the shock of realizing she had somehow anticipated what he had intended to say. She had turned, pacing back to the stool and gracefully sinking down. "I am not a witch," she shook her head again. "Though I believe I was accused of as much in the village of my birth." Her gaze fell. "I recall little of my past."

Emmett's fear subsided upon seeing her retreat, though he could not help feeling some anxiety as he deliberately thought of another question.

"France," she quietly replied. "Montcarvel, in the north." She shook her head again, anticipating his next question. "I cannot know your mind. It is only if you intend to act, if you make a decision—I am able to see it then."

"A seer," Emmett had murmured, unable to conceal his awe.

"Yes," Alice had nodded. "I saw Victoire decide to torture the truth from you, then kill you once she had the information she required."

"Victoire?" Emmett had asked, shuddering as he said the name aloud.

"She is absent for now," Alice explained. "She has little desire to nurse anyone through the change, and was intent upon ascertaining whether what you told her was true."

It was at this that Emmett had remembered, his eyes sinking shut as he thought of the darkened corridor, the tap of his boots against the marble floors, the eerie quiet of the abandoned townhouse. He had thought he heard a noise from abovestairs and had called out, then turned with stunned surprise at the sound of a feminine voice behind him.

"_Bonsoir, Monsieur_," the greeting was spoken in such seductive tones that Emmett had felt his cheeks warm—before he had recalled his place.

"I'm quite sorry, ma'am," he'd attempted to reply. "But this is a private residence and I'm uncertain how you got in, but you must—" He had gotten no further before small, cold hands had wrapped around his throat, and the darkened corridor had receded into blackness.

"The change," Emmett whispered, thinking of those chilled hands, of the impossible strength of a woman so much smaller than him.

"It was the only way," Alice had replied, her voice so soft and small that he might have struggled to hear her. "It is the course I have seen."

It was then that Alice had explained, the visions that she had seen of a future that might release them all. She had confessed that he might escape, that Victoire had been only grudgingly convinced of Emmett's usefulness and that if he were to flee, she was unlikely to give chase.

"But what would happen to you?" Emmett had asked.

Alice's half-smile was wry but without any self-pity. "She has begun to believe my utility is becoming unworthy of her efforts." She had shaken her head and raised a hand then, for Emmett had opened his mouth to respond, to protest—filled with protectiveness for this tiny, wise girl. Hadn't his brother always laughed at his soft heart?

"We have talked long, and your thirst has grown. Let us attend to that first, then we may continue the conversation."

It was then that she had disappeared before returning an interminable time later with a lamb in her arms. The animal writhed and bleated, but Alice restrained it with little effort, her gaze flicking to Emmett as if waiting for him to react. It was then that he had inhaled and been assaulted by the smell of rain and wool-oil…and something more, something so delicious that he had rushed from the cot with a speed he had not known he possessed. And it was then that he truly, fully understood what the change meant for him.

Emmett inhaled now, absorbing the scent of earth, grass that thirsted for rain, and brittle trees that barely withstood the North Sea winds that whipped over this landscape, scented with salt. He climbed to his feet, brushing at his breeches as he scanned the landscape with a resigned gaze. It was time he pretended to return to the task that Victoire had ordered him to do, while truly following the path that Alice had set him upon.

And though he was no longer certain he believed in God, he could only pray his belief in Alice and her visions was not misplaced.


	35. The Answer

_Thank you for reading & reviewing. _

* * *

><p><em>The answer, however, came not, and yet greater grew her distress.<em>

_Camilla, or A Picture of Youth  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**thirty five**

Emmett did not sense the ambush until it was too late.

He had ventured as far as he dared, to where the hillside crested and the trees grew thicker, bristling branches throwing the world into shadow. If he traversed much farther, he would risk nearing one of the open cast coal mines that marked this landscape; while his thirst had been slaked upon a malnourished red deer that morning, he loathed the animalistic urges he felt whenever he encountered any humans.

Though dusk had fallen, coloring the sky in tones of gray and violet, he knew the miners often worked by lamp light, their voices loud to his ears in this desolate, unpopulated place. Just as he began to turn, to lope back north and west to the manor house upon the sea, bracing himself for the displeasure he was certain Victoire would express when he reported no sign of his former master, his ears detected a faint sound.

It was only later that he would realize the soft thump was deliberate, that given how silently their kind were able to move, it was not possible the sound of someone dropping from a nearby tree was an accident.

But this thought did not occur to him, and he instinctively spun, eyes flaring wide as he saw Edward Maçon crouched before him, his posture so predatory that Emmett crouched instinctively in response. His gaze swiftly absorbed that his former master's lithe figure was garbed in only a shirt, breeches and boots, his dark hair wild about his pale face. His black eyes were filled with such focus and intensity that Emmett wondered how he had ever believed the man to be merely human. As the world abruptly tilted, Emmett swiftly realized it was not Edward Maçon he should be focused upon.

He was staggering, his feet swept from beneath him by a figure he had not seen. In the split second in which he was off-balance, he was struck from behind, sending him to his knees—before an arm snaked around his neck. Emmett instinctively raised his hands to grasp at the tightening arm, his eyes wild with panic and fear—but Edward Maçon had crossed the space between them in one swift movement and was inches away, his face like thunder.

Emmett's eyes sank shut. Though he knew he might throw off the vampire behind him holding him temporarily immobile, there was no way he could fight them both.

_You accept the risk? _

Alice's narrow, pale face had been terribly grave as she uttered the question. Emmett had nodded slowly, once. This was his fate now, to follow this course…or die in the attempt.

Emmett raised hands that trembled, palms flat and open…though he knew Alice had seen this, too—had seen him surrender before Edward Maçon wrenched his skull from his neck, his body slumping lifelessly to the leaf-strewn ground.

"Who guards the house?"

Emmett's eyes flew open, shocked that capture had not meant immediate death. But Alice had always been truthful about the uncertainty of her visions, that a snap decision could change the outcome in ways she was not able foresee. He might have sputtered had he been human, but he could see his former master had no patience to speak of, his shoulders at his ears, his face filled with fury. The arm around his neck loosened enough to allow Emmett to reply.

"Victoire," Emmett quickly answered.

"She has changed no others?" Emmett could feel Edward's cool breath upon his brow, could see that his hands were at waist level, twitching and ready to restrain Emmett should he attempt to defend himself—or flee.

Emmett shook his head. "There was only an elderly steward, a few maids—" Emmett had scented the traces of blood, but had not been present to see their bodies tossed into the sea.

"She killed them," Edward prompted, the tightness of his voice betraying his fury at this loss of life, that Victoire had left such a swath of destruction in her wake.

Emmett managed to nod, his gaze falling to the ground as his eyes shut against the truth. He knew Alice had tried to convince Victoire to simply dismiss the staff, but she had laughed at the idea, laughed at Alice's peculiar inclinations. "Your habits are much like your would-be-master, did you know that?" Victoire had asked, the words mocking, her expression filled with suspicion.

Alice had mutely shook her head, her expression blank.

"Who else?!" Edward demanded as he thrust a pale hand into Emmett's hair, yanking his head up, forcing his eyes to open.

Emmett's lips parted, his gaze filling with shock at the realization that Edward knew, that certainty was written in the frustration contorting his features. Edward somehow knew Emmett was omitting the existence of another vampire. Emmett shook his head, and his entire body would have shaken with desperation for Alice had not seen this, had not been able to warn him of what to say.

Something shifted in Edward's features, an expression Emmett had seen before in Victoire's gaze, the unwillingness to exercise patience any longer. The words burst forth before Edward could act on the decision, nearly a blur as they spilled from Emmett's lips. "She is naught but a girl, sir!" He shook his head, the motion frantic. "A slip of a girl—I swear, she is no threat to you!"

Edward opened his mouth to snarl a reply but Emmett interrupted, rapidly shifting tactics for he could see he had not convinced his captor—that Alice would be considered a threat regardless of what he had said.

"You will doom your wife, sir, I swear," Emmett vowed, desperately hoping that before his existence was snuffed out, he might still avoid complete failure. He owed it to Alice, and to his former mistress, who had committed no wrongs.

Edward's voice cut in, bitten between tight lips. "What can you possibly mean?!" He flung a pale hand in Emmett's direction, his fury palpable, "You doomed her by your actions, abducting her from a place of safety!"

Emmett's eyes sank shut again, certain this was why he would die despite all of Alice's efforts—for how could he make them see reason? "She was not safe there, sir—" he began his voice quiet—before he was silenced by the fist that connected with his jaw. He rocked back into the figure of the vampire who still restrained him, stunned that he felt no pain…but certain he was running out of time. His former master looked ready to come undone, his clothes dusty with travel, his dark hair tangled, his features lined with rage and impatience.

"Victoire means to greet you with her body—with the pieces," Emmett spoke quickly, rushing to utter the words that he knew would end his life—but might at least force Edward to see reason. "There is no circumstance in which you and your wife survive if you attempt to rescue her."

It was only then that Emmett saw Edward's anger falter, fear flashing across his features before his eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, his hands fisting in Emmett's shirt front. "How can you possibly know that?"

Emmett's lips parted but he could not think how to explain without revealing Alice's role, and endangering her life should Edward fail to believe the truth. And could the truth possibly be believed? Would Edward simply laugh mockingly, certain Emmett told wild tales in a bid to save his own hide?

Emmett's eyes sank shut, waiting for the violence he knew would be visited upon him for speaking the truth. But there was only the faint whisper of the wind in the surrounding trees, leaves fluttering against one another, a scratching, rustling sound. He thought of Galashiels, not so far from here, the River Tweed sluggishly winding through the green of the Selkirkshire lowlands. He thought of his brother, wan and wasted on his deathbed, consumption shredding his lungs from the inside out. He thought of Alice, black eyes filled with weariness and resignation as she admitted there was no certainty in any of her visions.

Her voice had been soft as she endeavored to explain. "Imagine you travel by carriage, the horses galloping at such speeds that the countryside is a blur passing by. In gazing out the window, you catch glimpses of things in the distance—but they are gone in a moment. And should the carriage turn, should the horses choose another direction, what you see changes—the destination is no longer the same."

Emmett waited for death, but death did not come. Instead, Edward's voice joined the rustle of the wind in the leaves, a whisper so quiet that Emmett might have thought his ears were merely playing tricks upon him.

"Do you know what you ask of me?"

Emmett slowly opened his eyes, uncertain he'd truly heard the tormented words. But there was no mistaking the bowed figure before him, pale hands thrust in his hair—his expression indicating he was utterly at a loss.

"Do you know what you ask of me?" Edward spoke again, black eyes lifting to return Emmett's stunned stare, all of the agony he felt apparent in his gaze.

The arm around Emmett's neck loosened but he did not think to rise from his knees, to flee, to race to the manor and warn Alice that Edward had come.

Edward's hands twisted through his hair, his eyes squeezing shut. "I hear her voice," the words were anguished. "In my head—calling me, calling my name." He shook his head, only lifting his gaze to pierce Emmett with haunted black eyes. "You don't know what you ask of me!"

Emmett was stricken, motionless—struggling to absorb what the tormented vampire was saying, and uncertain whether any movement on his part would trigger the return of Edward's justified fury.

"How—" Emmett began, but he was not able to finish forming the question, the words flying from his head as he was startled by the unmistakable sensation of a cold droplet of water landing upon his nose.

His gaze instantly rose to the darkening night sky, and though his expression had for the past terrifying space of time alternated between fear, anxiety, and despair, there was no mistaking the faint smile that began to tilt his lips.

~ • ~

Isabella had begun to lose all hope.

Her shoulder ached, the pain unabating. She had not the tears to weep, her throat so dry that when she attempted to pound on the door and demand to be freed, the words only croaked from lips that had grown cracked with lack of water. She was past hunger, her body like a hollow core, desiccated and beyond physical feeling.

She had expected in the first hours following Victoire's appearance that Alice would steal into the turret, a slight, dark-haired figure ready to nurse her wounds, a hunk of hardened bread in her pale hands. As the light had begun to fade, the sky slowly growing dark, Isabella's dry sobs had intensified for she knew no one was coming.

She lost all track of time, all of her energy focused upon the ability she had begun to doubt she ever had; Edward's name became a litany that echoed through her mind, a whisper at the edges of her consciousness even when she drifted in and out of sleep. She pictured him, with her there in the chilled turret, holding her close as she shivered upon the thin pallet; she imagined she was so cold because of the coolness of his skin.

"_Well, what did you expect, my love?"_

Her mother's voice echoed in her head, the amusement in Renée's tone almost mocking. For what had she expected? Hadn't she thought from the first that she could not know the strangely captivating gentleman for long? Hadn't that been her reasoning for disregarding propriety and engaging with Edward Maçon on that long ago day on the Coast Path? It seemed as if an eternity had passed since that overcast day, the purple spears of the crocuses on either side of the road hinting at the spring to come.

Even after he had rescued her, hiding her away at the inn in Porthleven, she had not expected that the journey she knew she must make, leaving Cornwall behind forever, would involve him. Isabella had never anticipated their acquaintance should last. And so it hadn't.

Isabella began to lose hope, her gaze unseeing as she regarded the rafters above her head, too weak to move from the thin pallet upon the floor. How many days had it been since she'd eaten that stale hunk of bread? How many days since she'd felt water pass her lips? But what did it matter? What did anything matter if Edward could not come?

She had once thought, in the first days of her captivity, that she had dreamed those panicked moments beneath Tiller's spring, eyes wide and staring as she fought to keep from screaming in fear, allowing the murky water to fill her lungs. But now she began to feel certain that she had been meant to die—that her impossible rescue by an otherworldly creature capable of inhuman strength and speed was the aberration. She had cheated death—but only for a time.

Isabella rolled over on the pallet, biting back a groan as her shoulder flamed with pain anew. She longed to block out her surroundings, to bury her face in her arms and fight the knowledge that she would never see Edward again. "I should be grateful," she whispered, the words quiet, weak, meant for no one but herself. She had known great joy. She had been loved.

But her brow furrowed as her eyes squeezed shut. For she could not feel grateful. Even in her weakened state, she could feel nothing but a burning outrage in her chest, unable to believe that such joy could be so short-lived.

It was the height of injustice—that she had been snatched from her life, as circumscribed and provincial as it had been, to be given the hope that there was something more…only to end up here, battered and despairing, her death all but certain.

Isabella beat a fist upon the turret floor, longing for the strength to free herself, longing for answers. Her chest burned with anger, her breath gasping past her lips; she longed to scream her frustration at the fates that had given her a taste of happiness beyond all measure…only to lose it all, in the blink of an eye.

She laughed, the self-mocking chuckle watery and weak, for she knew that even rising from the pallet would render her dizzy and staggering; she was too weak to do more than thump the floor with a grimy fist, much less scream to the stormy sky at a god that had seen fit to bring Edward into her life for a span of time that seemed no longer than the life of a mayfly.

She did not hear the insistent tap of the rain against the roof of the turret, her ears only vaguely noting the strengthening wind blowing through the broken slats of the shutters. She pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, hunching her body against the cold, against the misery of her reality.

The rain continued to fall.

She sought again to focus upon calling Edward, upon imagining him at her side…but even as his gold-flecked gaze rose to her mind, she could not help the whispered, resigned thought: _he isn't coming_.

He had come instantly to Tiller's spring, bounding across the countryside to reach her in mere moments, to save her. What explanation could there be for his delay? Why should she linger in this miserable place for days, perhaps weeks? The only explanation was that he was not coming.

Isabella fought the despondent idea. She gritted her teeth and raged at herself for having no faith in him. But what if McCarty had done more than knock her unconscious before stealing her away? What if he had somehow brought Edward to harm?

Her fist rose to her chest, her eyes wide as she suddenly realized she was not able to breathe. For how could she bear the thought? Even if she were to somehow find her freedom, what meaning could her life possibly have without him?

Isabella shook her head, fighting the panic rising in her throat. It could not be true. There must be another reason he had not come. She thought of her mother's cry, the tea tray crashing to the floor as Renée fell to her knees, hysterical with the vision of her husband's passing. Isabella clenched her fists, certain she would know. She would _feel_ it somehow. She shook her head again, insisting to herself that she would know.

The tap of the rain did not lessen in intensity, a ceaseless patter that she could not bring herself to pay any mind to.

Isabella awoke from a dazed muddle, uncertain she had been truly asleep, her weary gaze swimming around the turret to find a tankard immediately inside the door. "Alice," she whispered. She attempted to rise to a seated position on the pallet but found herself swaying, her shoulder burning as though a fire smoldered in her bones. Shrugging away the blanket, she crawled across the floor to the tankard, shivering as she greedily gulped down the water within.

Her stomach cramped almost immediately and she groaned, a fist over her belly as she fought to keep from retching up the water she'd just consumed. She was so parched—would she have stooped to licking the damp stones for sustenance?

Her fist tightened, her brow furrowing. If she were a vampire, she could have ripped the door from its hinges and escaped this place days ago. If she were like Edward, like Victoire and Alice, strong beyond measure, she could have flitted from the windows to the ocean below without feeling the cold of the water or the pound of the waves.

Her lips tightened as the fury in her chest flamed, longing for the means to save herself if Edward could not come.

It was only then that she noted the growing strength of the rain that had fallen for what seemed like days—though she had lost all sense of time long ago. Her gaze rose to the rafters, brows drawing together as she listened to the storm.

The door abruptly crashed against the wall, but she had no more time to react than before, simply flinching back before Victoire was before her, a figure of fury.

"This is how she repays me!" She whirled and the tankard was flying, ricocheting with a sharp clang off the stone wall before she was upon Isabella once more, moving too swiftly to be more than a blur. Isabella found herself upright, her toes barely brushing the ground as Victoire held her by her throat against the wall with one icy hand. "After all I've done for her!"

Isabella's hands rose instinctively, weakly wrapping around Victoire's wrists. She was able to choke gasps of air past her lips, but only barely, her eyes wide and stunned as Victoire blazed with fury. "She dares to defy me?! To turn traitor and flee to the other side?!"

Isabella could not hear the rain intensify, could not see Victoire's contorted features for her ears were ringing, her vision abruptly darkening.

The earth was soft beneath her knees, a mix of fallen leaves and bracken cushioning her weight. She could not breathe, her hands braced against the ground, her chin nearly to her chest as she fought to take in air. She did not feel the cool hands against her shoulders, the words Carlisle spoke seeming to come from a great distance.

"I tried to stop him, but…"

But Edward had been intent on saving her, unable to bear the world without her in it. Isabella could not breathe, lifting a hand from the ground to beat against her hollow chest, to stop the stubborn beat of her heart.

Carlisle stooped as though to lift her into his arms but she flailed, finally finding her voice, the wail that erupted from her throat like that of the lambs slaughtered before the coming winter, a primal, agonized sound.

She did not see the forest around them, dark with night, the sound of the ocean at their backs. She did not see the trees bow in the wind, her eyes blind to everything but the memory of Edward fighting to save her.

But Victoire knew his weakness. She had nothing to lose while Edward had one vulnerability. He had everything to lose; he had Isabella. Instead of making any attempt to attack Edward, Victoire had snaked towards Isabella again and again. It was all Edward could do to protect her, to keep Victoire at bay. When Carlisle joined the melee, Edward took advantage of Victoire's distraction to lift Isabella from the corner where she cowered, his gaze filled with determination as he flew from the turret.

But Victoire's screech of fury echoed down the hall after them, and the massive crash that followed was so loud, Isabella instinctively flinched in Edward's arms. Was it Carlisle's figure, colliding with the wall so forcefully that the floor shook? She tried to peer over Edward's shoulder, clinging to his neck—but she was suddenly flying, yanked from the cradle of his arms so abruptly that that she did not even cry out as she tumbled to the ground.

And Carlisle was too late. Though Isabella could see the fury that filled his features as he witnessed Edward's decapitated body fall to the ground, though that fury gave him the ability to tear Victoire limb from limb…it was too late. It was all too late.

She closed her eyes, desperate to shut out reality, to shut out the truth, the wail that clawed from her throat dying to a weak, pitiful keen. She was unable or unwilling to rise from her hands and knees, barely able to find air as sobs shook from her chest. Filled with sudden fury, she fisted her hands, pounding the very earth with the frustration and futility of her grief.

But she did not find the soft give of leaf litter and dirt beneath her hands, her fists aching as her eyes slowly opened to find the stones of the turret beneath her curled palms. Her head swam, her vision blurring as she lifted her head. The pacing, raging figure of Victoire was only feet away, her skirts a swirl around her legs, her hands a blur about her face as she gestured and ranted to her only remaining victim.

Only Isabella could not hear the furious words spilling from Victoire's lips, the roar of the rain drowning out all other sound. A shutter banged open, the latch unable to hold against the violent wind whipping around the manor. Isabella felt her heart bang against her ribs in unison with the battered shutter, and she knew without a doubt that she had witnessed the aftermath of Edward's demise. She had told herself she would know, that she would feel it. But she hadn't simply felt it; she had seen it, as vivid and real as the vision she'd once had of a terrible, lonely future without him, her hands gnarled and wrinkled in her lap as she gazed with endless longing out the parlor window.

She rose to her knees, the pain in her shoulder forgotten, her weary exhaustion nothing compared to the darkness consuming her very being.

Victoire turned at the movement and stalked towards her, stooping to wrap a pale hand around Isabella's neck.

Thunder crashed overhead as Victoire dragged Isabella to her feet, but the vampire did not start as James Eldritch Junior once had. She barred her teeth, her voice low as she asked, "Is this your doing? Is this what he found fascinating?" Her eyes narrowed. "A bit of sound and fury signifying nothing cannot frighten me."

Isabella's expression was impassive, her gaze blank and empty. She almost did not register Victoire's beautiful ivory countenance before her, for the world had receded to a vague blur, all shadows and deadened colors, as if she was suspended beneath the water of Tiller's spring.

Isabella did not react when thunder boomed overhead, a clap so loud that it seemed the turret shook with the noise. Her eyes did not widen when the chamber filled with bright light, the flash of lightning so near that the air crackled with electricity. Thunder boomed and crashed, a riot of sound that would have been deafening but for her dulled senses, her eyes sinking shut as she imagined the water closing over her head.

"You think you can frighten me, a mere girl?!"

But Isabella only faintly discerned Victoire's enraged shouts, the sound muted by the roaring in her ears, by the blackness that seemed to spread from her very core, absorbing all noise, all feeling, all sense. For what reason should she wish to continue breathing, to continue feeling, to continue existing? Her lips parted, as though to inhale the water of the spring in which she'd once been suspended. She imagined herself drowning, her head tilting back.

She had no sense of Victoire's hand tightening around her throat, simply sighing as the last traces of air left her lungs. Her eyes were closed against the scorching light that illuminated the turret as though it was a summer day, and she did not hear the threatening crack of the rafters above.

The storm was overhead but she did not know it, thunder following lightning following thunder so closely that Victoire's shouts were lost to the sound. She did not feel the rain that poured through the crack in the rafters, dark hair plastering to her skull as Victoire pulled her close, ready to shake the life from her body. She did not feel the arc of fire that darted from the sky, faster than any creature, living or dead. She did not sense her body flying back, free, tumbling through the air.

It was only the cold shock of the sea that forced the return of her senses, her eyes flying open as her lips instinctively sealed against the briny water. She had heard tell that the final moments before death comes were somehow filled with all of the memories of one's life, as if the mind saw fit to catalog every moment before oblivion descended.

But Isabella's mind was fixed upon a single instance, a memory so starkly bright that all else faded as she flailed in the dark water. Instead of hearing the muted rush and roar of the water around her, she heard only the delicate sounds of the string quartet playing the opening notes of a minuet. She felt anew the anticipation and nervousness she'd known in that moment, unable to recall any assembly ball in which she'd enjoyed the opening dance with a gentleman so elegant. But she had felt equal to the honor, her gown, freshly made over, glimmering beneath the light of the candles blazing above. She had not thought it remarkable that she was unable to draw one of her evening gloves over her injured hand, never overly concerned with propriety and appearance—until her finger brushed against the pale expanse of Mr. Maçon's exposed wrist, her startled gaze flying to meet his own. For though his skin had been cold, it had filled her with contrary heat, like plunging her hand into a fire—or into the sea.

She shook her head, weakly swinging her arms against the pull of the waves, uncertain she could hold her breath any longer, uncertain she could fight the toss and churn of the current to break the surface. Her eyes sank shut, recalling the vision, recalling that there was no reason to fight, no reason to go on living.

But a strong hand suddenly found her own, the grip tight and unyielding. Her eyes flew open, her heart surging in her chest as she made out Edward's long frame, dragging her close, his black eyes filled with intensity and relief before he looked upward. Then he was kicking with powerful legs, spearing through the water as he had once before—though she had no recollection of the memory. Isabella instinctively curled against him, though she was uncertain that what she saw and felt was true—that she had not died at Victoire's hand and somehow found her way to Edward's side.

For he was there, with her beneath the water, his arms tight around her figure as they crested the frothy waves, the weakening rumble of a dying storm echoing in her ears.


	36. Resolution

_Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, recommended, and followed the story this far. All of your words are motivation to keep going, even when I feel so ready to move on to a story where there will be zero research!_

_A few folks have commented on the use of the word 'ma'am,' in the past handful of chapters. I haven't found anything definitive which states this short form of 'madam' was not used in the U.K. at this time. I was able to find multiple incidents of the word in texts from the time, including Fanny Burney's novels, which have been quoted through out-as well as Maria Edgeworth and Jane Austen, who would have been roughly contemporary to the time. It does *not* show up in Samuel Richardson's Pamela, which would have been written earlier in the 1700s, so I'm not certain if some convention in writing changed during Burney, Austen, and Edgeworth's lifetime. There's also the possibility all of those texts were edited to conform to American standards (eg: swapping out English spellings for their American versions), but I'd be surprised if the editing included abbreviating 'madam' in some instances but not others. Any additional resources on this issue would be interesting to see!_

_I've actually found it more problematic to continually use the first names of the many characters in the past few chapters as the convention at that time was to pretty strictly use Miss, Mrs, Mr, or the person's surname alone - even between husbands and wives. This seems so out of sync with our own modern customs that it's hard to maintain the convention - but I fully acknowledge it's anachronistic!_

_Thank you again!_

* * *

><p><em>I resolved to go away and trust all to Providence, and nothing to myself. And how ought I to be thankful for this resolution!<em>

_Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded  
><em>_Samuel Richardson_

**thirty six**

'_Tis much better they be together in death…_

Isabella's words echoed in his head, the alto of her voice like a song. He had cursed the perfect recall of his kind in the past, but never so much as he did now, overcome by the memories of their interactions. It was because of him that she was here, frail and small beneath layers of blankets, her chestnut hair like a wing against the pillow beneath her head, lashes dark against the pale blue shadows beneath her eyes. Had he never succumbed to curiosity, to temptation, she would be safe in Mousehole, quietly leading a life without turmoil, danger, and fear.

The warm hand resting within his palm beneath the counterpane gave a weak squeeze.

Edward lifted his head, his gaze flickering over her drawn features; her breathing came steady and even, indicating she was still asleep. A self-loathing smile flitted over his lips, thinking that even in slumber she sought to comfort him.

The quiet murmur of thoughts preceded the sound of slippered footfalls upon the bare floorboards in the corridor; Edward did not turn his head, nor did he speak to note the arrival of the young girl in the doorway of the bedchamber. He continued to gaze upon his wife, his countenance bearing a bewildering mixture of consternation, resignation, and impatience.

"I have not your talents, Monsieur Maçon," Alice spoke quietly, lingering in the doorway without stepping further into the room.

"And I do not have yours." His response was dry but there was no humor in his tone. "You must tell me—what do I intend to say next? What does my future hold?"

Though his sarcasm was apparent, Alice responded as though the question was genuine, silent as the images flickered through her mind.

Edward could not restrain a groan, dropping his head into his hands as he saw the play of possibilities in his own mind: the flash of a garden filled with sunlight, Isabella's figure bent over a tangle of blooming roses as Alice tugged a needle through an embroidery hoop nearby; Emmett splashing through a creek in pursuit of a darting deer, only to abruptly stop and swear as he realized he'd ruined his new boots—while Edward and Carlisle collapsed in laughter on the bank; Isabella perched upon a cliff he knew all too well, her chestnut hair tossing in the wind, a smile flitting over her lips.

"How can you be so certain?" he growled. His head remained bowed, his eyes closed as he struggled to take a calming breath.

"Because it was never certain until now," Alice quietly replied. "You can't know how many times I saw you destroy Emmett." She moved into the room but did not cross to the bed or to his side, instead drifting to the window and trailing a pale hand upon the sill. "Sometimes it was instantly, when you first came upon him in the wood. Sometimes you questioned him before the direction of the conversation would ultimately doom him."

"He might have explained himself in Oxford and allied with us," Edward bit out, dropping his hands and opening his eyes. He still could not accept that Isabella had had to suffer, that there was no other way to avoid that outcome.

"Your fear for Isabella and suspicion of his motivations made that impossible," Alice's answer was soft but certain.

"Because he was motivated by his loyalty to you." It was only with this statement that Edward's demeanor softened, his shoulders sagging.

Alice simply nodded. She knew now what she had not known when she had envisioned Edward again and again in her future: he could hear the thoughts of everyone around him, everyone but for Isabella. He would have seen Alice in Emmett's thoughts, and would have known that Emmett was motivated not by a need to defend Isabella, or by vengeance for his human life having been so cruelly ended, but by the young French girl who had saved him and guided him from the time of his change. Emmett would have been riddled with worry for Alice, knowing Victoire's temper would not have allowed her to survive if Victoire suspected Emmett's duplicity.

"He calls you _petite souer_." The thin line of Edward's mouth softened, almost a smile as his gaze focused upon Isabella.

Alice's smile was less hesitant, the weariness briefly fading from her eyes as she answered, "Perhaps I should learn Gaelic if he insists I teach him French."

Edward's smile faded, the line of his back straightening as he spoke, "Though you have shown me, I still find it difficult to believe…"

"The visions I have seen?" Alice finished the statement for him, her gaze steady as her lips pursed stubbornly. "It was only in pursuing those visions that any of us are present now," she insisted, turning from the window to face him. This was not the first time they'd had this discussion, her tone nearing impatience as she added, "It was not always all of us. I warned Emmett again and again that he might not survive—"

"But he knew there was a chance," Edward's gaze lifted from his wife, black eyes unyielding as he regarded Alice with a steady stare. "There is always a chance the outcome might change." Though Alice could not read minds, she understood what he did not say: there remained a possibility that the idyllic future she saw more reliably now might still alter, might still fall apart with a decision she could not yet see.

"Emmett knew there was a chance, however slim," Edward continued, "that I might show mercy—however shadowy that future might be."

Alice did not disagree, her head bowing in a single nod. "He refused to leave," her voice fell to a whisper as she returned her gaze to the window panes, the glass damp with condensation. She did not see the stretch of patchy turf that fell away to sandy shore a short distance from the inn, nor did she see the blue gray dance of the sea that lapped quietly at the shore just beyond. "I warned him of the risk—"

"But he refused to leave you in Victoire's hands," Edward quietly finished. His gaze fell to his own hands, his brow smooth. "Having convinced her to change him, she would have been enraged that your vision could not anticipate his lack of loyalty."

A line formed between Alice's brow, her hands lifting in a helpless gesture. "I did not exercise kindness towards Emmett out of some desire to gain his loyalty—"

Edward did not allow her to finish, his voice quiet, "Perhaps not, but that is what occurred." Alice's lips thinned and though she had no sense of his thoughts, she knew without asking that this remained his central concern; Edward could not trust that she was not manipulating him as she had once manipulated Victoire.

"It is not the same," she spoke, her voice low. "I could leave now, if I wished. That was never the case with Victoire."

Edward did not reply, his gaze focused on Isabella's pale face, his expression inscrutable. Imposed over the reality of her slender figure shrouded in blankets before him was the memory of the turret, the roof in flames despite the lashing rain, Victoire's shouts audible to his ears. He had not fully believed Emmett's explanation, though he knew of Isabella's ability, and had witnessed it personally the day Carlisle had dared to question their relationship.

It had taken all of his willpower to refrain from destroying Emmett the moment they'd come upon the young vampire in the sparse woods surrounding the manor. He had relived the moment he'd returned to the house to find Isabella gone too many times to count, castigating himself for leaving her side for even a second. Edward had barely heard Carlisle's heartfelt apologies, waving a hand impatiently at the explanation of the diversion that had distracted him from the book he'd been sent to fetch on Isabella's behalf.

"It was a fawn—a wounded deer dragging it's limb. I thought to take it across the road to the woods—I couldn't very well end its suffering in plain sight."

Carlisle had heard Isabella's cry, but by the time he'd sped back through the house, she was already gone. When Emmett realized Carlisle was in pursuit, he'd turned, her limp body slung over his shoulder, and threatened to wring her neck should Carlisle continue to follow.

How was Edward to believe that Emmett had not meant his threat? He had not been present to hear his thoughts, to know his intentions. He had been near crazed with outrage and fear, barely able to heed Carlisle's words of caution—that if Victoire had changed his former footman, she might have changed others. It had only been Carlisle's level thinking that had prevented Edward from slaughtering Emmett the moment they'd tracked him to the northern woodlands near the Scottish border.

Though his arm was coiled around Emmett's neck, Carlisle's gaze had been fixed upon Edward, his eyes piercing as he silently reminded him to question the man first. _We have no notion of what other reinforcements Victoire might have brought to bear._

But even had Carlisle failed to mentally voice the warning, Edward was shocked by the tenor of Emmett's thoughts; he was all resignation, the image of his own death so vivid in his mind that Edward could not bring himself to act as his instincts demanded.

Edward's shock had grown tenfold when he witnessed the pale girl he'd once encountered in Montcarvel in Emmett's mind, black eyes flecked with gold as she asked him if he was willing to accept the risk.

"He could reconcile himself to death if he felt some certainty his death would not be meaningless." Alice's voice was soft, but Edward's eyes sank shut as though she had shouted, pained by the truth of her statement. He could not forget his first encounter with the good-natured, hopeful young man who had been certain his accent and background would prevent him finding any employment. Edward recalled his quiet but unembarrassed admission that he'd defended a young, blameless housemaid, and could not help the thought that it was this protectiveness, this sense of honor, that had driven Emmett's actions as equally as his loyalty to Alice.

But he did not speak to voice these thoughts to Alice, his gaze fixed upon Isabella, his mind circling back to the regrets that had haunted him from the moment he'd plunged into the icy sea. How could he have prevented this? How could it be necessary that she suffer as she had?

Seeing that Edward's thoughts had again turned pensive, Alice realized any further conversation would be quite futile. Her gaze cast to the bare floorboards, she padded from the room on slippered feet, her own thoughts in confusion.

She was unsurprised to find Carlisle Cullen in the private sitting room at the end of the corridor, seated where she had left him moments before; he reclined with apparent ease in an upholstered chair before the window, a slim volume in his hands. Like the bedchamber, the room was sparsely furnished, the rug covering the floorboards faded and worn thin in places, the window panes damp with the mist that seemed to hang upon the air in this northern clime.

Though the pastor's son gave no indication he intended to speak, his gaze fixed upon the page, Alice tensed as she braced herself for his coming words. "You should understand," he began, "I have never expected to be anything but a solitary creature."

His gaze rose from the book and Alice found herself unable to look away. Unlike Edward, his expression indicated no turmoil or aggravation, his hazel gaze impassive. "When Edward and I first encountered one another in London," he continued, "we were very cautious of one another." He closed the book, his gaze falling to his lap as he quietly added, "It is sometimes difficult enough to believe the reality of what I am, much less the choices I've made that set me apart from others like me."

Alice crossed the room and took a seat in the armchair opposite his seated figure, her countenance filled with such hopeful expectation that Carlisle felt he glimpsed her youth in a way that circumstances had not yet allowed for. "Is it so shocking," Alice replied, her dark head tilting, "that your humanity should linger though you are changed?"

Carlisle had no desire to discourage her optimism, but could not help pointing out her naiveté. "You are aware of what a mob of humans intended to do to Madame Maçon? Their brutality would have meant her death had Edward failed to intervene." He thought of his own unforgiving father, intent upon hunting down any Catholics who dared to continue to practice their faith. Simply because humans did not require blood to survive did not somehow make angels of them.

Alice's gaze fell, her expression revealing a brief flash of defeat before her lips pursed with stubborn resolve. "Then perhaps it should be all the more unlikely that creatures such as us could have been brought together." Carlisle's lips parted to respond but she quickly continued, "If most vampires are like Victoire, then how fortuitous that we should come together as a—"

But Carlisle did not allow her to finish, his voice gentle as he interrupted, "Alice, you must give it time."

Her brow furrowed in response. She felt as if she had already waited so long, that she had endured so much at Victoire's hands, suffering constant fear and danger—and it was only Emmett's fatal decision to investigate the disturbing sounds he'd heard in what should have been the empty townhouse on Half Moon Street that had changed the dire visions she'd witnessed to that point. She'd begun to catch glimpses of a future so promising that she could not help doing everything she could to bring it to pass. The doubts Edward expressed, and the patience Carlisle bade her to practice ran contrary to all of her instincts. Victoire was gone, Isabella lived, and they had all escaped with nary a scratch upon their unnatural hides.

But instead of speaking any of this aloud to Carlisle, Alice instead rose from her seat with her hands fisted in her skirts, struggling to conceal her frustration. At Carlisle's questioning glance, she sharply explained, "To find Emmett." At least he would not tell her to be patient.

But he also did not perceive Edward or Carlisle's response to her visions as unreasonable. "Ah, don't fret, _petite souer_," he laughed. "They will come around." Alice sighed, wishing she had his faith. She reluctantly settled at his side, gazing around the common room of the inn with disinterest, her hands folded before her on the rough table. Unlike Emmett, she did not pretend to swig from a tankard, for she felt certain none of the other patrons noted their presence.

It was fortunate that Old Saltburn had not shaken its reputation as a smuggler's hideaway, for the Ship Inn's patrons knew better than to express interest in any strangers who happened to appear in the common room—especially strangers whose heads nearly brushed the low beams of the ceiling as Emmett's did. Emmett had been reading newspapers that dated from several weeks ago for the greater part of the morning, unwilling to subject himself to the tension and melancholy of the private rooms abovestairs. The few fishermen who had come and gone had paid him no mind, and the innkeeper had done little more than plop a tankard before him, seeming not to note that Emmett had yet to need it refilled.

The innkeeper had asked no questions when Alice and Emmett had appeared the prior day, without horses or baggage, struggling to conceal their exhilaration as they asked for rooms. It was Carlisle who'd had his wits about him enough to direct them here once they were all confident of Victoire's demise, explaining that he and Edward had secured rooms in the tiny hamlet earlier that week in expectation of needing a safe place to retreat once Isabella had been rescued. It was only a short time after she and Emmett had arrived that Alice had discerned Edward clambering through the window of the room next to her own; she had rushed to the bedchamber to assist him—but he had barked at her, insisting he needed no help. Alice had longed to explain, seeing the suspicion in his gaze, the mistrust in his very movements—but she swiftly realized it could wait.

But even hours later, though she had shown him the promising future that continued to dance through her visions, Edward remained intractable.

"He cannot bear that he was not able to save her," Emmett's words were so quiet, that no human in the common room would have detected that he had spoken. "He blames himself for endangering her," Emmett continued, "and was then forced to stand by while she suffered." He shook his head, lifting the tankard to his mouth to allow the ale to dampen his lips. "He needs time," Emmett murmured, his gaze fixed on the depths of his cup. Then, turning his head, his mouth curved into a confident smile as he met Alice's worried gaze. "But he will come around, little sister. I have no doubt."

~ • ~

Perhaps it was because this had happened once before. Perhaps she sensed the warmth and safety that cocooned her figure, and could not think to feel fear as consciousness crept over her. Perhaps plunging into the cold sea water so soon after she'd suffered the vision of Edward's death had shocked her so thoroughly, that it was not possible to forget Edward's hand wrapping around her own, wrenching her into his arms before he speared to the surface.

Whatever the reason, when Isabella's eyes opened, she felt no fear, her gaze shifting to where she knew Edward would be sitting.

"Isabella." Her name was an exhale upon his lips, filled with such relief and love that her mouth weakly curved into a smile in response.

"Edward." His name was a croak, her throat parched, her lips dry. He moved so swiftly, she saw only the blur of his hands as he reached for a pitcher of water and poured her a glass, before he was gently helping her to sit upright.

She drank from the glass greedily, shivering at the sensation of the water filling her empty belly. "You came," she finally continued, her eyes filled with such brightness that he found he had to look away, his brow furrowing.

"Not soon enough." He saw her hand reach for him in the corner of his vision, and fought the desire to rear away, to deny that he was at all worthy of her. She should have been safe with him. His eyes sank shut as the warmth of her palm met his own, the sensation seeming to travel up his wrist and forearm to heat his core. "I should have never left your side."

Isabella's response was tinged with soft laughter. "Your recriminations sound much like my own."

Edward's gaze flew from his lap, shocked to see the sardonic humor in her chocolate gaze. He could not think how she could find herself at fault for what had happened—or see any humor in the situation. His countenance was riddled with confusion as he regarded her silently, brow deeply furrowed.

"I told myself," Isabella explained, toying with the empty glass in her hand, "that I should not have gone outside. Though you had not expressly forbidden it, I should have known. Carlisle was hesitant, but I knew he would not stop me—and it was clearly the opportunity Victoire needed to act."

Edward's lips thinned. "It was not Victoire." Isabella's gaze rose from the glass, her eyes wide with surprise at the vehemence in his voice. "It was Alice."

A line formed between her brows. "What do you mean?"

"Alice convinced Victoire that she would risk her own life were she to make an attempt to attack me—or you—and that she should leave the task to Emmett."

"Is that not true?" Isabella asked, unable to understand the bitterness in his voice.

"There was a risk to all of us, apparently," Edward explained, his hand slipping from her own to wave with a gesture of dismissive impatience. "It was only when Emmett acted alone that any of us escaped harm."

Isabella was silent for a long moment, absorbing the words, the meaning behind them, the bitterness of his tone. When she spoke, the words were drawn out, almost hesitant as she formed the question, "Do you doubt it?"

Edward opened his mouth to immediately respond before his lips snapped shut. "What does it matter?" He struggled to relax, leaning forward and raking a hand through his hair. "You are safe now."

"As are you," Isabella softly replied, reaching for his hand again. Her eyes sank shut. "I saw you gone, Edward," her voice broke on his name. "Carlisle was too late to save you—and you were so intent upon saving me."

Edward's lips parted, for it was what Alice had told him, what she insisted might happen if he and Carlisle had acted alone. He struggled to form words, to voice the doubts and reservations he'd felt from the moment Carlisle had directed the tiny French girl and his enormous former footman to the inn at Old Saltburn, uncertain they could be trusted, suspicious of their motivations.

But as his wide, stunned gaze saw the torment evident in Isabella's tightly closed eyes and trembling lips, as he heard the tears in her voice, he found he could not speak. For he had no doubt as to the verity of Isabella's visions, and he had no doubt as to her truthfulness now. Isabella would not lie—she had no motivation other than her improbable love for him.

Still, he could not help asking, "You are—certain?" The final word came forth hesitantly, for he knew the answer before the question was fully voiced.

Isabella mutely nodded, her hand tightening around his own. Her fierce grip would have been painful had he been human.

It was then that Edward shifted, moving from the hard backed chair to the bed, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her onto his lap. "Oh, Isabella," he murmured, his lips against her hair. He had known she had caused the storm, had feared for her life as the lightning began to arc around the turret—and had momentarily thought to defy Alice and Emmett, to storm the manor despite their warnings of what such a decision would cause.

"I would do anything to have spared you this," he murmured against her hair, the words a fervent vow.

Isabella shifted in his arms, pulling back only so she could meet his gaze. She spoke hesitantly, fear tinting the words. "Are we not safe now?"

She could only vaguely recall the storm, the feel of the rain pouring through the crack in the turret roof—her brow furrowing as the memories mixed confusingly with the recollection of the waters of Tiller's spring closing over her head. "Victoire is gone, is she not?" She did not think it possible she could be safe in Edward's embrace if this was not the case.

Edward nodded, his countenance somber. "The manor caught fire, and the smoke began to draw attention—" It had been only a few miners at first, but it became clear that others would soon follow, intent upon rescuing anyone who happened to be inside. Alice had insisted it was better this way, that the death of the steward and the few servants who had been in residence when Victoire descended upon the house would be attributed to the fire—and Victoire would be only ashes, indiscernible in death. "But Alice is certain lightning struck Victoire—and I am certain she would have been hard upon our heels had she somehow survived."

Isabella nodded, shivering as she remembered the cold hand around her throat, the beautiful face contorted with rage. "We are safe," she repeated the words, her arms tightening around Edward's shoulders.

Edward nodded, content to simply hold her, to relish her warmth, the fierce beat of her heart, the rise and fall of her breast against his own. They sat in this manner for some time, silent, absorbing the reality of their circumstances, content to simply hold one another with the knowledge that they were safe and no immediate dangers threatened.

It was only the grumble of Isabella's stomach that could distract him, castigating himself for forgetting how long it had been since she had properly eaten. But before he could ring for a maid, there was a rap upon the door.

He quickly rose to his feet to answer, frowning with confusion and momentary concern. When he saw the maid upon the other side with a ready tray of stew, a tankard of cider, and a wedge of bread, he could only sigh.

He remembered himself enough to quietly thank her before taking the tray and closing the door. It was only as he turned and crossed to the bed that he quietly muttered, "Alice." The name might have been a mild curse for the manner in which he spoke it.

Isabella's puzzled expression prompted him to finally fully explain. He began at the start, confessing what he had not told her long ago in St. Austell—that Alice had slipped when he had first encountered her, indicating she had met him once before…though he knew such a thing was not possible.

"She is like me?" Isabella breathed in between avid sips of stew.

Edward nodded. "Only more so. Perhaps it was the change that heightened her ability. Perhaps she no longer has the need to suppress the ability as she once did." He went on, explaining Emmett's role in the ordeal, and how close a call it had been that the former footman had survived. "Alice has guided all of us like pawns upon a chess board." Bitterness had unmistakably returned to his voice.

Isabella frowned. "But I do not feel like a pawn," she replied, lowering her spoon to the bowl. She shook her head, a faint smile tilting her lips. "I feel like the queen," her smile broadened as she elaborated. "Everyone was intent upon protecting me, upon saving me." Her smile turned wry. "And I did all I could to call you, to bring my rescuer to me." She reached for his hand, seeming not to note the consternation in his expression as she intertwined her fingers with his own.

"But in the end, it was me." Her voice softened. "I defeated Victoire, though I had no notion I was capable of it."

Edward could not deny the truth of her statements, silent as he regarded her with undisguised surprise. For though she was pale and too thin, there was a strength in her countenance that had not been present before.

"And even then, had you not been there," Isabella quietly continued, her gaze falling to their joined hands, "I might still have perished." She closed her eyes, thinking of the roar of the waves in her ears, drowned out by the notes of the minuet she and Edward had once danced to long ago. She had not been certain she had the strength, or the will, to fight the current and strike for the surface.

"I wish—" he began, the words tight.

"You wish it could have been another way," Isabella softly finished. "You wish I had not suffered. You wish that Emmett had not been changed." She shook her head, her lips thinning. "But would you have returned to England had Alice not suffered the fate she did?" Her gaze was unyielding as it met his own "We would have never met had you not been searching for her."

"And you would be safe," Edward quietly replied, unable to meet her gaze.

"Perhaps," Isabella lifted a shoulder. "Or perhaps some other incident would have incited James Eldritch Junior's suspicions, and I would have suffered the same fate." Her fingers tightened their grip. "I would not change a thing, Edward, if it meant we were not together."

"No," Edward nodded, exhaling. There was a part of him that wished she was not right, but he could not imagine returning to the life he had led before. His black eyes rose to her own, sincerity evident in his gaze. "Nothing could keep me from you."

Isabella simply nodded, knowing it to be true.

It was only then that the future Alice had foretold began to take shape. For Isabella could be nothing but smiling and welcoming when Alice worked up the courage to knock on her bedchamber door the following morning, her gaze downcast, her shoulders at her ears as she waited for approbations that never came. "What would I have done in your place?" Isabella asked as they quietly discussed all that had passed. "Would I have fought to survive, even if that meant risking others? Would I have sacrificed myself with no knowledge of whether my demise would have changed Victoire's path?" She shook her head. "Edward has told me that you and Emmett are close. I can understand that you must have been a refuge of support to one another—so how could either of you have left once the possibility of survival was glimpsed?"

Alice could have cried with relief at the depth of Isabella's understanding, struggling to keep her grip loose as she grasped the human girl's hands, afraid she might hurt the frail creature with the force of her emotion. But as she raised wide, doubtful eyes to Isabella's pensive countenance she realized the human girl was not frail, despite her still thin figure and wan pallor. There was strength in her brown eyes, and a fierceness that Alice knew was not to be taken lightly.

It was this same fierceness that came into bear when Carlisle and Edward began to discuss finding a more permanent situation. "While the lack of curiosity demonstrated by the fishermen here is convenient, it cannot last."

Carlisle nodded in agreement, replying, "We can likely find a cottage—perhaps near the Lake District where there is a good deal of wild land—"

But Isabella sensed something unspoken in their plans and could not help interjecting to ask, "And what of Emmett and Alice?" Carlisle had faltered, his brow furrowing, while Edward simply raked a hand through his hair and looked as though he longed to argue. But Isabella would not allow him to, speaking in a hurried voice as she added, "Wouldn't it be preferable to find a situation large enough for all of us? I know Emmett is eager to make amends, however much I tell him it is not necessary."

Though Edward had begun to grudgingly concede that the decisions Alice had made had been necessary, he found it difficult to defer to a slip of a girl—despite his own ability to see exactly what she foretold. Perhaps it was simply a matter of having acted independently for so long, or perhaps he had not yet fully forgiven the fear and worry he had suffered in ensuring that Victoire was destroyed—not to mention the physical suffering Isabella had endured. Whatever the reason, he had not simply assumed that Alice and Emmett would accompany them once they departed Old Saltburn. He could easily see, however, that Isabella had reached an entirely different conclusion regarding their future circumstances.

"It is what she has seen, Edward," Isabella quietly insisted after he remained darkly silent.

"Simply because she has seen it does not mean it _must_ come to pass," Edward spoke more sharply than he intended, and his expression immediately shifted to contrition as he crossed to her side and dropped to his knees. In a softer voice, he asked, "Are you certain, my love?"

Isabella nodded, her hands gentle as they reached for his own. "I cannot think how painful it must have been for my mother," she began, her voice thoughtful as she gazed down at their joined hands, "to have borne such gifts but been forced to conceal it." She shook her head, thinking of her mother's bright smile, eyes sparkling as she rested a hand upon Isabella's head. "She concealed what she was—from me, from my father—from everyone who knew her." Isabella's hands tightened around Edward's own before releasing him. "She longed for me to find a path, a way to live where I would not be forced to hide the truth." Her gaze rose to find his own and there was a fierce protectiveness in her countenance that Edward knew would bear no disagreement. "Perhaps this is that path. Perhaps this is the way."

And so, after a fortnight in Old Saltburn in which Isabella recovered her strength to the point that she was able to take short walks on the beach, the four vampires and the single human girl over whom they all protectively hovered packed their few belongings into a lumbering carriage and made their way west. As Carlisle had predicted, a small cottage was available to let on the outskirts of Egremont, on a sliver of coast in the westernmost reaches of the Lake District, between the Irish Sea and the River Ehen.

For the sake of appearances, Emmett and Alice insisted upon taking the rooms beneath the eaves and planned to claim to be manservant and maid should they encounter anyone curious enough to ask—but Isabella refused to allow either to act as servants. As she had done when Sheil and Mrs. Hammett were the only help available at Swan Cottage, she dressed herself, mended her own clothes, and tended the gardens that surrounded the house in Egremont. And though Emmett might attempt to wait on her hand and foot, he had Edward as competition for fetching wood, building fires, closing and opening shutters, and other heavier duties around the house. Isabella also began to improve her skills in the kitchen, for she could not bring herself to take on the risk of bringing servants into the house, even if only during the day. It was such a risk that had changed the course of Emmett's life irrevocably—and she could not help recalling the suspicions Laura Mallory had begun to voice during their final days in London, that being in close quarters with those who were ignorant of the truth risked exposure for them all.

Edward continued to remain wary of dangers he could not truly identify. It simply seemed as if they had always been in flight, running and hiding from one threat only to find themselves subject to another. He found it frustrating and amusing that contrary to her vulnerability, Isabella was perhaps the least nervous of them all. As she curled against him in bed she had softly reasoned, "After all, I am surrounded by impossibly strong otherworldly creatures—some of whom have already risked their lives to ensure my safety." She trailed a hand upon his chest as she mused, "And given Alice's ability, as well as your own, it seems there would be adequate warning should any danger—human or otherwise—rear its head."

As the winter passed and the ground began to thaw, Edward's wariness began to diminish—though Emmett's contrition did not. He had spent the first few days in Old Saltburn profusely apologizing whenever he was in Isabella's presence, and though he now knew better than to speak the words aloud, she could still discern regret and remorse in his expression whenever he was in her company. It occurred to her that there was only one element of her current circumstances that gave her any regret, and perhaps it would give Emmett a sense of absolution if he were to act on her behalf in resolving the issue.

The moment the thought occurred to her, Alice appeared as though snapping from the ether in the doorway of the sitting room, her countenance alight with excitement. "It is the perfect idea!" she exclaimed, flitting into the room.

Isabella could not help laughing. "Well, you have certainly saved me the trouble of consulting with you on whether there is any risk in pursuing the decision!"

Alice paused, her hands fisted in her skirts as her amber eyes briefly grew vague and unfocused. Then, as if coming out of a daydream, she abruptly spoke with a bright smile, "I see no danger. All shall be quite well!" She darted from the room, her figure a blur, Emmett's name upon her lips.

Isabella could not help another soft laugh at Alice's sprite-like manner, before rising to find the writing table and settling down to pen a letter she had been longing to send.


	37. Saving

_I forgot to congratulate MissMae and KatHat in my note for chapter 35 and have been meaning to rectify that oversight ever since! They both made the prediction that Victoire would get 'crispy crittered' by lightening-and got me worried my story was way too predictable! _

_Thank you for all of your reviews, and for reading this crazy thing in the first place. There will be one more chapter after this, that I truly hope doesn't take so long to get up. _

* * *

><p><em>He moved on slowly, yet I soon lost sight of him; I sat motionless with terror; all power of action forsook me; and I grew almost stiff with horror; till recollecting that it was yet possible to prevent the fatal deed, all my faculties seemed to return, with the hope of saving him.<em>

_Evelina, or the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World  
><em>_Fanny Burney_

**thirty seven**

The doors of the church opened, the creak of the hinges preceded by the burbles of voices behind them; the excitement of the parishioners was nearly palpable, their eagerness apparent as they spilled down the shallow steps of St. Thomas and prepared to enjoy the remainder of their day—free from labor or other pressing duties.

Emmett stood at a distance he judged to be safe, covertly watching from the opposite side of the wide lane, his gaze trained upon his watch fob as though he were waiting for someone…which he supposed, in truth, he was. He hoped his dark garb, a tall black beaver and a heavy coat with wide lapels, would allow him to appear unassuming despite his size, disappearing against the gray brick of the buildings behind him. But as his gaze darted with regularity to the shallow church steps, he saw a tall young lady had paused, her gaze unmistakably fixed upon him.

Emmett did his best to refrain from staring in return, a burst of fear shooting through his chest at the thought that his lingering—or his appearance—might have caused suspicion. Isabella had confirmed Alice's expectation that he would be in no danger, stating that she had not been widely known in Heamoor.

It was Edward, ever cautious and concerned of any dangers that might befall their newly formed family, who had wondered if Emmett's resemblance to himself might trigger suspicion. "How frequently do you see gentlemen so pale now that the fashion for powder has passed? With eyes so dark—or tinted with that unnatural gold when we've fed? I was unfortunately notorious in the short time I was in the neighborhood, and fear someone might be clever enough to suspect a connection."

Alice had squinted, as if she exerted enough effort she might be able to see the future alter. But she had sworn she saw nothing.

The young lady on the steps of St. Thomas, however, was unabashedly staring, her blue eyes wide and somewhat stunned as she regarded Emmett as though she had once met him and was not pleased by the recollection of their meeting. His gaze fixed on his watch fob with sudden fascination as he combed his own mind for some indication he should recognize her, even thinking back to the haze of his human memories. But he felt certain he would recall someone with such scars, her oval face heavily powdered in an attempt to conceal the pits that marred her brow and cheeks.

A gruff voice caught her attention, breaking the spell. "Rosalie, what's gotten into you? The carriage is waiting."

Emmett glanced back across the street, absorbing in an instant the tall, burly figure of an older man who could only be her father; a beard obscured his strong chin, a peaked hat on his head indicating he'd once been with the Royal Navy though the belly straining the golden buttons of his jacket made clear those days were long behind him. The young lady started, wide eyes swinging to her father before she ducked her head, "Of-of course, I just thought…"

But the statement trailed away as she obediently followed the older gentleman to a waiting carriage—though Emmett was not mistaken in seeing her dart one last glance in his direction.

"Damnit," Emmett could not help the muttered expletive, for he was certain she had seen him looking. He briefly wished he had Edward's uncanny ability to hear thoughts, however much he knew the skill sometimes tormented the fellow, for he was certain it would solve the mystery of the scarred blonde's interest.

But he was distracted from this futile thought by the appearance of the person for whom this entire trip had been undertaken, his spine straightening and his hand rising to his chest where the letter he'd carried the many miles from Egremont rested against his silent heart. There was no mistaking this was the woman whose absence had brought Isabella such regret, for she matched the description Emmett had been given—and held the hand of a young girl with slickly plaited hair, slightly bowed as she stooped to listen to the child's chatter.

Quickly, Emmett moved down the lane, certain the parishioners were all too focused upon making their way home to notice the figure darting around the corner. He reached the rear door of the sacristy, which he had investigated the prior night under the cover of darkness, and swiftly ducked inside. The room was shadowed, but he had no difficulty finding the door into the main chapel, the aged frame allowing shafts of light through.

He did not pause once he passed into the chapel, his gaze fixed upon the open doors of St. Thomas where the vicar and curate lingered, conversing with a small cluster of parishioners who were less eager than others for their Sunday meal. He reached without looking down for one of the prayer books crammed with a hymnal into the cubby on the back of a pew angled towards the altar, his pace failing to slow as he passed the vicar with only a slight nod of acknowledgement. He was relieved to see the curate only vaguely nod in return, his attention unshifting from the stout lady before him who was proclaiming the merits of that morning's sermon.

The crowd had thinned but as he expected, the older woman and the young girl were slower in their progress than most; further, the young couple they followed were not moving quickly, for the lady was unmistakably increasing, her shawl doing little to hide the swell of her growing belly. Emmett passed them with little effort, and deliberately fumbled the prayer book in his hand as he did so, exclaiming with a huff of air in mock exasperation as he stooped to retrieve it.

The young girl, perhaps no more than four or five years of age, chose that moment to break free of her nursemaid's grasp, likely intent upon catching up to her mother and father with some words of inanity on her lips. Instead, she stumbled into Emmett, who could not help a slight cringe as her warm hands flattened against his trousered leg, his lips sealing against the too-close scent of human blood. But she likely did not notice the motion for she was rearing back, her eyes wide with something more than mere surprise.

"Excuse me," Emmett attempted to recover himself, rising to his full height and making his apologies to the nursemaid.

But her faded blue eyes were upon the child, her gaze concerned but also exasperated as she reached for the girl's hand. "Ach, Sukie, ye know better than to dart away in such a manner!"

The little girl paid no heed to her nursemaid, her eyes narrowing as they fixed upon Emmett's carefully composed countenance. "He's a bad man, Sheil," she announced, her lips set in a mulish line.

It was only then that the nursemaid's gaze fixed with any attention upon Emmett, and had he not been a vampire, he likely would not have noticed the barely perceptible widening of her faded eyes before her gaze quickly shifted back to the little girl. "I'll not have ye being so rude, Miss Susannah Dwrclir!" The Welsh surname rolled off her tongue easily.

The young couple that had been proceeding before the nursemaid turned at this disturbance, the pregnant woman's features wrinkling with consternation. "Sukie, are you misbehaving? So soon after church?"

"No, Mama—"

The little girl attempted to defend herself but her nursemaid did not allow her to finish, her voice gruff but firm as she interrupted, "Ye know very well ye had no cause to be so rude, for the gentleman was only pausing to fetch his prayer book." Her gaze lifted to Emmett, and he could see that somehow she knew he was there for her, for it was apparent in the innocence of her question, "Weren't ye, sir?"

Emmett did not hesitate despite his internal surprise, simply nodding and replying, "But of course. And I apologize for startling your charge."

"Pay her no mind, sir," Sheil continued, then, her gaze shifting to the young couple, "We'll catch up with ye, Mr. and Mrs. Dwrclir."

The lady hesitated but her husband seemed happy to be free of the disruption, simply nodding in Emmett's direction before continuing on his way, his wife's hand tucked in the crook of his arm.

"Ye look very like him, ye know—though ye are much above his height," her gaze narrowed, "And your hair is far curlier."

"I—" Emmett did not know whether to protest and feign ignorance, or to acknowledge the truth of her observation. His gaze fell to the young girl standing at the nursemaid's side, her small face wrinkled with a mixture of defiance and fear. She knew to be afraid of him, though the adults around her did not.

"Well, we must be on our way," Sheil's gaze fell to the child as well. "Though I suppose I will have an hour to myself once supper is finished and ye are too weary to put off your bedtime any longer."

Finally, the child was distracted from boring Emmett with a mutinous gaze, her expression instantly filling with denial as she exclaimed, "But I am never tired, Sheil!"

"Aye, but ye will be, Sukie, once you've had your supper."

And with that, the two continued down the lane and Emmett could not help from watching them go, the prayer book loosely clasped in his hand. He was unsurprised when he saw the nursemaid glance back over her shoulder, her gaze knowing.

Emmett lingered before the church for a few more moments, pretending interest in the prayer book and occasionally checking his watch fob though he was highly aware of the passage of the minutes. It was not until the last parishioner had strolled away, the vicar waving from the steps of St. Thomas, that Emmett set forth with a swift, purposeful pace. He was easily able to follow the scent of the elderly woman and the little girl, though he made a show of occasionally pausing and peering in the windows of the shops he passed, feigning curiosity in the wares on display.

He hesitated as he reached the outskirts of the town; to the east he could see the chimney stacks and church spires of Penzance while pastures and farmland stretched directly before him to the south. If he continued, it was unlikely he would fail to draw the notice of anyone who happened to pass, and he could not think how he could appear at the Dwrclir door with any excuse that would not immediately fall apart under the least scrutiny.

After all, he had contemplated a few stories while preparing for the journey, thinking he might claim acquaintance with Charles Swan, Isabella's father. Or perhaps he could pretend to have been one of Sheil's charges as a young boy. But Alice's nose had wrinkled with reservations while even Isabella had shaken her head, quietly stating, "It would be too well known, even in Heamoor, that Sheil had only ever served the Swan family. After all, she risked her life for me; she would not have done so had she not borne feelings like that of a mother."

"Which she could not possibly feel if she had passed from employer to employer, looking after a multitude of children," Edward added, understanding her reasoning.

"You may have to go about this in a surreptitious manner," Alice had warned him. And, as he darted into the woods and cautiously approached the nearest house, he realized she had been right. The Dwrclir's resided too far from the town for him to pass their home unnoticed, and there was no excuse that would allow him entry unquestioned. As he crept past hedges that concealed him from view of the narrow road, Emmett wondered if Sheil's insight into who he was would extend to forgiving how he must intrude on her now.

He lingered near the hedges for some time, waiting for the light to fail and for the faint sound of voices within the house to fade. He drew the letter from the breast pocket of his coat, fingering the paper idly, his fingertips able to detect the fibers indented by the pressure of the quill. Though the letter was still sealed with a wafer, he had some of the words memorized by this method—and Isabella had warned him he would likely have to read the letter as Sheil had never been able to do more than sign her name.

It was with this thought that Emmett finally rose from where he had been sitting in the shade of the hedge row, his gaze thoughtful as he contemplated the house in the failing light. The roof was steeply pitched but he did not doubt that the few domestics serving the household resided beneath the eaves. He wondered if Sheil shared a room with anyone, or if she slept in a trundle bed in the children's bedchamber—for he had heard the squall of a toddler earlier, followed by the soothing sound of the elderly woman's voice.

There was nothing for it but to find out for himself. He moved swiftly, leaping the hedge and crossing the short distance of scythed grass to the rear of the house, where a garden was just beginning to put up shoots and leaves. He was moving at such a fierce pace that he easily leapt the distance to the roof, pausing for only a moment to ensure no one detected the faint thump that had accompanied the motion. But there was no stirring within the house; the master was reading in the small study belowstairs, a pipe at his lips, while the mistress slumbered peacefully in a bedchamber with a candle burning on her dressing table. Emmett could smell the tallow and the tobacco, and hear the faint beating of half a dozen hearts.

Carefully, he clambered down a drainpipe until he was parallel to the highest window. A swift glance inside determined the chamber was empty, the narrow bed neatly made, a stub of a candle unlit in a simple pewter chamberstick. Quietly, he tested the window frame, exhaling with relief as the sash easily gave, allowing him entry. He hesitated once his boots were firm upon the bare floorboards, listening to the faint sounds of a household growing quiet with the close of the day.

Only when he was certain he would come upon no one in the corridor did he approach the low door, ducking through and pausing in the hallway. Perhaps he should have been unsurprised to see the elderly nursemaid peek around the frame of a door further down the hall; he had heard the sound of her heart beating, the steady rasp of her breath—but he had not realized she was waiting for him.

A needless finger over her lips, she ducked back through the door behind which she'd been leaning. Emmett silently followed, struggling to push away a dart of fear that she might have an enormous frying pan in her hand, as Isabella had told him she'd once wielded in defense of her charge.

When he ducked into the small bedchamber, she swiftly closed the door behind him—but did not brandish any weapon in her hand, her features simply expectant and somewhat grim as she moved to a wooden chair in the far corner.

"Aye, ye are very like him," she uttered as way of greeting, leaning back and retrieving a bit of darning from the small table at her elbow. "Stole his way into Swan Cottage at least twice, he did," she continued, her gnarled fingers deftly weaving yarn through the hole in the stocking in her hands. "Though I never knew his means of escaping notice."

Emmett did not know what to say in reply and so remained silent.

"But ye are not his brother—or cousin or some other relation," Sheil continued, her gaze rising from her mending to regard him with a hard stare. "Ye are alike but it is not blood that makes ye so."

"No," Emmett finally spoke, agreeing with her insight. "What we are—"

But she waved a hand, a puff of air escaping her lips. "It makes no matter to me," she interrupted. "As long as it means my Isa is safe." The impatience that had accompanied these words immediately faded from her gaze and she leaned forward, every appearance of disinterest and bravado fading as she asked, "Isa is safe, is she not?"

"Yes," Emmett replied swiftly, moving further into the room and reaching into his breast pocket. "I am here on her behalf."

"Aye, thank God for that," Sheil murmured. "There were such rumors following that mob snatching her away—and when Justice Hale finally concluded she must have died in the spring, I knew not whether to be relieved or filled with grief." She shook her head, her gray hair covered by the clean muslin of a simple mob cab. "But I thought…" she hesitated, her gaze lifting to Emmett, something pleading entering her voice. "I thought I should know—that I would feel it in my heart should she have perished in that terrible attack—or thereafter."

Emmett nodded. "She longed to write to you, but did not dare risk sending a letter that might make its way into the wrong hands."

"Aye," Sheil nodded, her voice turning grave again. "As she very well might. She and Mr. Maçon are still notorious here, ye know?"

Emmett shook his head. "I have only been in the neighborhood a day and have not made the acquaintance of anyone here."

"As ye might well avoid doing," Sheil replied. "I may not be the only one who wonders at your resemblance to Mr. Maçon."

Emmett nodded, thinking of the young lady on the steps of St. Thomas, her blue eyes almost arrested by the sight of him.

"But that is not what ye came to tell me," Sheil continued, "As I imagine ye are more than capable of taking care of yourself."

Emmett could not help a soft laugh at this, nodding once at her observation. "Yes, you are right. And I likely shouldn't linger longer than necessary."

Sheil's soft chuckle in response was wry. "What would the Dwrclir's think if they knew I had a young man in my room!"

Emmett smiled before crossing to the stool she gestured to, indicating he should sit. "Did Isa tell ye I cannot read?" She waved a hand, "Oh, shop signs and such, but nothing more than that."

"Yes," Emmett replied, sliding a nail along the wafer and opening the pages of the letter. "She warned me that as long as I was successful, I might be required to read the letter to you—as it was unlikely anyone else could be trusted to do so."

"She's right," Sheil sighed, taking up her darning again. "Even Mrs. Berty gave credence to those blasted rumors that Isabella had something to do with the storm that took the lives of those fishermen." She snorted. "As if Isa would harm the hair on a man's head."

Emmett did not speak, his lips thinning as his mind was taken back, unbidden, to the night of Victoire's demise. But he did not wish to dispute Sheil's belief in her former charge's innocence, simply flattening the pages of the letter upon his thigh and asking, "Shall I?"

Sheil nodded once, the motion abrupt.

"Dearest Sheil," Emmett began.

_First, you should know that I am safe. I have been safe this twelvemonth with Mr. Edward Maçon, whom I now call husband—as you might have expected to occur if malevolent forces had not interfered. What is more, you should know that I am happy. How could I be anything other with such a husband at my side? But I'm certain you are eager to know the details of how this all came to pass and I will do be my best to endeavor to tell you…_

The letter went on to detail that they had surreptitiously made their way from Cornwall, giving the reassuring detail that Edward had acted with honor and respect the entirety of the time. She described the details of the house in London though she did not share the exact location, and skewered with wry detail the modiste who had provided her wardrobe. "…being familiar with Renée's accent, you would have laughed to hear her attempt at approximating the same."

A single silent tear slid down Sheil's withered cheek, though her gaze did not lift from her darning, as Emmett went on to describe the details of the wedding. He paused, thinking to offer her a handkerchief, but she waved the slip of cotton away and brushed impatiently at the tear. "Her mother would have been pleased she was married by a priest, is all," she gruffly explained. "But go on."

So Emmett continued, speaking Isabella's word aloud, detailing the wonder of Hyde Park, so green and peaceful within the bustle of London, and the extravagance of Vauxhall Gardens. Emmett would have blushed had he still been capable of the reaction when he came upon her description of the two women Isabella had thought were actresses, only to be told by Edward that they were Cyprians. Fortunately, Sheil simply emitted a bark of laughter that she quickly bit back, her eyes dancing as she motioned for Emmett to continue reading.

Isabella glossed over the reason for their departure from London, sparing Sheil the needless anxiety of what they had all endured now that the danger was past. Instead, she described the wild, untended garden surrounding Carlisle's home near Oxford, then skipped with little reason other than the need to find a home large enough for their household—preferably near the sea.

_So we are settled safely, and not far from the sea, which is of great comfort to me. However, you must know that I think of you every day, and pine for you much as a child pines for its mother. Though, truth be told, the poignancy of this sentiment may be more deeply felt, for I know my mother to be lost to me while you still walk the earth, bringing comfort and discipline, and patience and good humor into the lives of your charges. _

_You are welcome here, and Mr. McCarty can ensure your safe passage. You have but to speak the word and know that I would be happy to have you once again at my side._

_With all my love,_

_Isabella Maçon_

Emmett raised his gaze from the page, unaware that his expression was filled with expectation until he found himself faltering, his hesitant smile fading at Sheil's abrupt response.

"No, no, what could the child be thinking?" Her voice was rough, her darning discarded in her lap as she lifted a frowning gaze. Emmett did not speak, regarding her with confusion. "As she said, she is settled," Sheil reasoned, "What need has she for me?"

Emmett opened his mouth to protest but Sheil was shaking her head. "No, I understand she may _want _ me—but she does not need me." A faint smile crossed her lips but her blue eyes were undeniably sad. "She is safe, among friends," she nodded towards Emmett. "With a husband who would go to the ends of the earth for her." Her eyes sank shut for a brief moment as she shook her head again. "She does not need me."

"Miss Cadwallader," Emmett began, protest apparent in his voice.

But Sheil would have none of it, her voice firm as she interrupted, "You'll not convince me, young man, and I don't truly believe that's what she sent you here to do." Her gaze was steely as it met his own and Emmett, who knew he was capable of crushing a man's skull with the force of his strength if he so chose, found himself quailing before her.

"Isa sent you her to reassure me, to share the news of her life now—but convincing me to remove from my home was not your ultimate goal, now, was it?"

Emmett could do nothing but nod, his gaze on the worn floorboards beneath his feet. "She wished you to know you were welcome. I suppose I expected—"

"Aye," Sheil nodded, knowing what he had expected. But she did not castigate him for his presumption, her voice comforting when she spoke next. "But take heart, young man. She will only be disappointed for a moment when you return without me."

Emmett was unsurprised to find this was true. He knew Isabella's character to be resilient, and that her disposition was almost one to be willfully happy, to find the good in circumstances which others might have found defeating.

"Ah, I might have expected," she'd softly exhaled when he'd returned to Egremont with no one at his side. "She is a stubborn thing, unaccustomed to change," Isabella had smiled as she spoke the words, but Emmett could see her lips tremble with a hint of sadness. "Perhaps another time."

For though Sheil could not reside with them, Isabella would not accept that there was no manner by which remaining in touch was not possible. After all, if Emmett had once stolen into the Dwrclir home to read a letter to the aging nursemaid, could not such a method be used again to ensure Sheil knew Isabella was well and happy? Though it was risky, and Edward had severe reservations about pursuing the matter, Alice confirmed there would be no repercussions—with one caveat.

"Only Carlisle or I should go." Her gaze fell upon Emmett, curiosity evident there. "Emmett was seen by someone—though I can't imagine how she might have known you."

Isabella could tell Emmett would have flushed scarlet had he been capable, his gaze cast guiltily to his hands. It was only then that he shared how a young lady had stared at him while he was waiting opposite the church, confessing that he had not thought to admit to the odd occurrence as it had resulted in nothing untoward, and he did not wish to worry Edward or Isabella unnecessarily.

"Scars?" Isabella faintly echoed.

"Who is it?" Alice asked, her voice soft.

"Rosalie Hale," Edward quietly answered for his wife, for he recalled with no effort the statuesque blonde to whom he'd introduced himself after walking with Isabella to the dressmaker's in Mousehole.

"Should we be concerned about her?" Alice asked with a faint frown.

Isabella shook her head, "I think not—not living so distantly from Cornwall." Her gaze shifted from Alice's curious expression to Emmett, who hung his head with something like shame. Her own countenance was wondering, attempting to see him with fresh eyes, to note how his ivory pallor and flawless skin marked him as different from anyone living—and yet eerily similar to Edward, who Rosalie could not have met more than once or twice. Yet something about Emmett had caught Rosalie's attention, perhaps something beyond a resemblance to the mysterious Frenchman who had once passed through the small Cornish town.

Alice's caveat was heeded without question in the following years and though Emmett was disappointed he could no longer provide such a special favor to one to whom he still thought of himself as owing a debt, it was widely agreed that Carlisle was a far more appropriate message-bearer. Between his scholarly manner, his golden appearance, and his unassuming bearing, he drew no notice in his travels to Cornwall, in the few days he resided in Heamoor, or in slipping in and out of the Dwrclir house to provide the latest news to Isabella's former nursemaid.

However, in the fourth year of this endeavor, Carlisle had a traveling companion of which he was initially unaware. Emmett could not have said what compelled him to steal away from Egremont while Edward and Alice were away hunting, and Isabella slumbered in her bed; the only thing he was certain of was that he could not get the image of Rosalie Hale out of his mind. Since he had first heard her name in the week following his return from Cornwall, it had echoed through his head like a soft bell, a chorus to a song he could only just hear, distracting him from whatever task he pursued.

He had tried to forget her, to forget the sight of her stunned gaze, bright blue and arresting. He tried to tell himself that she had not appeared pleased to see him, to somehow recognize him and his resemblance to the Frenchman that had once passed through the neighborhood. Isabella had shared the enmity the Hale family held for her and the Swans when pressed for more detail, confessing the role her mother had played in saving Rosalie from the burning fever of smallpox…leaving her alive but terribly scarred. He had told himself that his strange obsession with her was a fancy, that nothing could come of it—yet still, he had stolen away, unable to watch Carlisle go for a third time without following.

He had gotten no farther than Claife Heights when the faint sound of booted feet speeding across damp grass met his ears. He had stopped short, the motion so abrupt that the turf beneath his feet skidded up beneath the soles of his boots, wet earth revealed beneath churned grass.

She was upon him in seconds, her pale features set in a manner he had not seen since Victoire's demise. Her eyes shone in the pre-dawn darkness, the amber color evident to his sharp gaze, the scent of the deer she'd killed drifting from her bare palms.

"Is it so bad?" Emmett could not help asking, unwilling to make a pretense of greetings and pleasantries. She knew him too well.

Alice did not speak for several seconds, but her gaze did not grow vague, indicating that she was examining the future, looking for outcomes he could not see. When she spoke, her voice was solemn. "It will set us all upon different paths for a time." She paused, tilting her head. "Is this endeavor worth that?"

Emmett's gaze fell, for he did not know for certain. He did not know _her_, did not know what he was about, what would result from seeking her out. "I have to try. To see."

"Very well." Alice responded with a sharp nod. "I will try to explain to the others."

Then she was gone, skirts straining at her legs, her body a diminishing blur in the darkness of the park.

Emmett took a deep needless breath, watching her go, before he turned south and continued on his way.

He made the journey on foot, uncaring of the muddy condition of his boots and trousers, unconscious of the travel grit that dusted his brow and hair. He had no intention of pausing to linger needlessly in inns and hotels, to give the appearance of humanity when he arrived in Cornwall. She already knew he was different. And he had no notion of whether he intend to approach her at all—or if he simply wished to catch another glimpse of her, to somehow answer the wordless question she had triggered in his mind by sight alone.

But somehow, in the corners of his mind, he knew that would not be enough.

What was more, the circumstances under which he encountered her could not have allowed him to remain an observer, standing by the wayside without acting, without interfering.

Isabella had mentioned Alverton Manor as the home of the Hales when she had shared what she knew of the history of their family; Emmett could not forget the reservation in her dark gaze as she'd repeated the story Sheil had once told her in the darkened cab of a hired carriage after the disastrous snub she'd received from Rosalie Hale at a Penzance assembly ball. Emmett wondered at the nature of a girl grown so bitter from her disfigurement that she would lash out so publically at someone with so little connection to the cause of her scarring. He wondered at the scars that might lie inside, where no one could see.

The manor was not difficult to find, for a village of the same name bordered it, and laborers were winding down the narrow road as the light began to fade, returning home after a day of work. Emmett avoided them, knowing his bedraggled appearance would attract notice, stealing through fields that had not yet been harvested, and lingering in sparse copses of woods between the meadows. Only after night had fully fallen did he approach the imposing stone house bordered by wrought iron fencing, gazing up at the few windows lit by the yellow glow of candles. He was uncertain what to do next.

He had still not determined a course of action when the sun rose, stealing into the boughs of the cedars that bordered the rear of the house in the instance that a gardener or groomsman might have reason to work in the yard. He watched the house with frustration, wishing for some sign, some indication from the girl that had haunted him these past years. He even wished for Alice's guidance, though he knew she would likely be reluctant to give it if what she had told him was true—that his actions were going to result in the splintering of their makeshift family.

Emmett sighed, unwilling to follow the path of such thoughts, for what could it mean? That Isabella would resent him so greatly for having pursued such a fanciful fixation that she would banish him from her presence? She was too forgiving and empathetic for such a thing, though he would not put it past Edward to wish to punish him with such severity.

It was pointless to try to make out the ways and means of Alice's visions, for he knew her predictions could bear fruit in ways he could never anticipate. Instead, he watched as the butcher, coalman, and chandler all made deliveries at the rear of the house, listening as the chandler flirted outrageously with the housekeeper who received the delivery; he overheard two hall boys exchange gossip about the head footman as they crossed the yard with a buckets of chimney ash hanging from their hands, their pale faces dashed with gray soot. His head lifted as candles slowly began to flare to life in a few windows as the sun began to set again, anticipating that with darkness, he might be able to draw nearer to the house…he might be able to slip inside.

Emmett waited for the sun to fully sink below the horizon before he dropped from the fragrant boughs of the cedar—but before he could take a step towards the house, the hushed sound of a door slowly shifting open distracted him. The sound came not from the servants' quarters on the ground floor, but from somewhere above and to the left, near what appeared to be a drawing room boasting an array of glass doors that opened onto a terrace.

Emmett froze, watching with a vigilant gaze for a servant who might be attempting to steal away, perhaps seeking a few hours with a sweetheart. Or perhaps it was the master of the house, wishing to take a turn on the terrace while enjoying a few puffs on his pipe. But the hinges of the door creaked and the motion ceased, indicating the person was attempting to be covert.

Emmett's eyes narrowed, thinking back to his own days of service, wondering what mischief he'd unwittingly stumbled upon.

But his lips parted as he saw a familiar figure appear in the gloom, her lithe frame unmistakable as she stole down stone stairs that led from the terrace to the lawn below. Her head was uncovered, a strange sight given the time of day, her blond tresses bound in a loose braid knotted into a bun at her nape; tendrils framed a face that appeared anxious and saddened as she drew near. Whatever garb she wore was concealed by a heavy cloak of dark wool.

Quickly, Emmett melted back into the stand of trees before she could discern any presence other than her own, watching with a deepening frown as she darted into the trees before glancing back towards the house. There was a desperation to her pace that did not indicate any sweetheart was waiting, her blue eyes strained though her heart beat with a slow steadiness that belied the anxiety of her appearance.

He could not help following at a safe distance, carefully avoiding any twigs or branches that might snap beneath his tread—though she was moving so swiftly, he was not certain she would have noticed the sound. His wariness led him to move far more slowly, worried that if she saw him she might scream, or if she recognized him, grow angry and call for help. He had no wish to frighten her—though he did not know what he would say if she did allow him to approach without crying out. He moved so slowly, so cautiously, that she almost stole from his sight, disappearing amongst the shadows of the trees like a ghost.

It was only then that he quickened his pace—though Emmett found himself nearly halting in surprise as he saw her figure stoop a few yards ahead, reaching with gloved hands for stones at her feet. Her hands slid into the pockets of her cloak as she continued moving forward, gliding across the ground on swift feet.

She stooped again before the reached the stream that bordered the southern edge of the manor, and he could see the strain in her posture as she straightened to her full height with more stones weighing her down.

Emmett was uncertain to do, watching with parted lips as she paused at the edge of the water. It moved swiftly, for it was spring and rain had swelled all the waterways in the past months, portending a good harvest for that year. She did not hesitate long, stepping down the bank on feet that seemed far too sure for the task she was about to undertake.

"Rosalie."

Her name escaped his lips, low and urgent—for he knew not what else to do, certain that if he raced towards her, sweeping her from her feet, rescuing her from the path she clearly wished to take that she would scream, and that the noise would draw attention for miles. And he had no will to cover her mouth, to squelch her cries as he'd once done to Isabella Swan. He would never act such a monster again.

She turned swiftly, her skirts swirling more slowly in the water at her feet. Her countenance was filled with shock, but he felt his own surprise at how quickly she recovered, her gaze narrowing, her lips thinning.

"You have no business being here."

"I could not stop thinking of you."

Her features twisted. "Of the freak? Of the disfigured girl who might have been beautiful?"

He shook his head, daring to take a step closer. "I don't know that I would have noticed you if you had not noticed me first."

This surprised her, blue eyes widening as her mouth fell open. But she quickly recovered again, her chin lifting as she snapped, "I would have thought you would have a French accent."

Emmett nodded, "It would be a fair assumption as I am acquainted with the gentleman you reference." His gaze briefly fell before lifting to find her pale face in the growing gloom. "But we are not related as you think."

"What does it matter?!" she flung up a hand in an impatient, angry gesture. "What does any of it matter?!" Her gaze dropped to the rushing water at her feet and Emmett could sense the intention in her words.

"Rosalie," he spoke more urgently, taking another hesitant step forward. Yards of distance still separated them but he knew he could cross it swiftly should she choose to act rashly. "Don't do this."

When her eyes lifted from the water, tears blurred her gaze, her lips trembling as she fought back the sobs shaking her frame. "Why?" she cried. "What reason do I have for remaining on this earth?" She covered her eyes, her shoulders hunching with the force of her tears. "Who are you to tell me I must live?" The words were almost for herself alone, a mutter that Emmett might not have heard had had been human. "You know nothing."

"You are right," Emmett nodded in agreement, which startled her enough that she lifted wide, damp eyes to his face, her hands falling to her sides. "I know very little," Emmett continued. "The longer I am on this earth, it is every day more clear to me how little I know." He inhaled and felt a tug at his heart at the scent of her tears upon the air, mixing with the fresh rainy smell of the stream, and the green of the forest and fields around them. "Yet I do know that even when life seems at its darkest, even when it appears as if there is only reason for despair—even then there is cause to hope." His gaze fixed upon her, seeing that she was listening, that she was absorbing his words as though they were water and she had been long lost in a vast desert. "There are mysteries and surprises and pleasures big and small that make life worth living." He paused, considering. "Or at least, very interesting at times."

The laugh that burst past her lips at these final words appeared to surprise them both, her gaze startled as it met his own, a gloved hand at her lips. They were both silent, realizing that some corner had been turned—though she did not yet move from the stream where she still stood.

"Who are you?" she finally whispered, breaking the silence.

Emmett squared his shoulders, realizing this was it. This was the moment in which he played his hand and resolved the fixation he'd felt these past years. He lifted a broad hand, fingers splayed, palm facing the sky. "If you come with me," he promised. "I will tell you."

Rosalie moved from the stream with such swiftness that he could not help but smile—but the expression faded as he realized she was not slowing, barreling towards him with such urgency that he stumbled back in sheer surprise at the force with which she collided into him. He did not dare breathe as her arms snaked around his shoulders, her face buried in his neck, hanging onto him as though she was drowning.

"Tell me your name," she whispered for she felt at least this she should know. She should know the identity of her savior, of the man who had appeared like an angel, however mud-stained and dusty, to rescue her when she had been unable to find a reason to go on.

"Emmett," he quietly answered, his arms rising to hesitantly circle her waist, his lips moving against the softness of her hair as he spoke. "Emmett McCarty."

"Emmett," she repeated the syllables, the name a sigh that held a sense of contentment she had not thought herself capable of feeling any longer. "You will take me with you, Emmett?" she asked, lifting her head to regard him with a hopeful gaze.

Emmett could do nothing but nod, his amber eyes slowly filling with the same hope and happiness.

"Yes, Rosalie," he replied. "Yes, I will."


	38. Circle

_Thank you._

* * *

><p><em>They live much longer than we; yet die at last, or at least vanish from that State. 'Tis one of their Tenets, that nothing perisheth, but (as the Sun and Year) every Thing goes in a Circle, lesser or greater, and is renewed and refreshed in its Revolutions; as 'tis another, that every Bodie in the Creation moves, (which is a sort of Life;)…<em>

_The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies  
><em>_Robert Kirk_

**thirty eight**

The scent of rosewater seemed to linger upon the air here. Isabella knew it was a trick of her mind, yet raised her head nonetheless. Her eyes sank shut as the rough sea wind tossed her hair about her face, allowing the scent of ocean salt to dissipate the illusion, the memories.

So much was changed, and yet the same. Though she could not help returning repeatedly to this place, and had witnessed the landscape change over the years—there was much that was as it had been when she was a young girl, trailing after the skirts of her mother and, later, her nursemaid. The ocean before her looked no different, the waves cresting and falling ceaselessly, as they had always done. And if she turned her back to that incessant tide, she would see a landscape as pastoral as it had been decades before, cottages tucked behind aged hedgerows, the narrow country lanes winding through green fields and copses of wild forest.

To be certain, those lanes were now smoothly paved, no longer treacherous with mud and ruts should a fierce rain fall. And the cottages might burble with the sound of voices that did not originate with any of the occupants, tinny and canned to her sensitive ears. But still, so much was familiar.

Changed and yet the same. The words had become a comfort to her over the years, for had she not first applied them to herself? Had she not murmured the words aloud as she stared at the reflection in the glass, the first time she had seen her own visage since Edward's hand had been forced by the fates? Her hand had trailed over her lips, staring with a wide gaze at the snowy features that were so familiar…and yet different. Were her cheekbones slightly more defined? Were her lashes darker? Or was that simply the contrast to skin that was now snow white, no hint of blush staining her cheeks? Was her hair darker too, richer, threaded with chestnut and auburn—or was that simply her keener gaze, now able to discern details she'd never been capable of noting before?

"The same, but changed." They had discussed it beforehand, had known that time would force the decision if fate did not. For Edward could not contemplate life without her, nor she without him. But they had presumed some momentous event to be the deciding factor, Edward's gaze filled with dark concern as he watched the skies over the ship they had taken to the Americas not long after Emmett had disrupted the short peace they'd known in Egremont.

The journey had been the impetus for the first conversation on the topic, for Edward had imagined the rough life of the colonies, or the danger of the voyage might force his hand. The ocean was known to be fierce, breaking ships apart over the long crossing, and though he scoffed at tales of wild natives stealing women away, there would be dangers they had not known in England. Isabella had sensed his hesitancy in raising the topic, but had simply taken his hand and smiled.

"I could not lose you—not so soon," Edward had uttered the words forcefully, the statement rushing forth.

Isabella's smile had widened. "Nor I you," she had replied, squeezing his hand—before wryly asking, "But would there ever be a time that was not too soon?"

Edward had laughed, pulling her into his arms with a fierceness she knew all too well.

But it had not been a storm at sea, smashing their ship to pieces, or a rough crowd of superstitious colonists bent on violence, that had forced Edward to act. No, it had been a dark-haired girl on the doorstep of the cottage they shared with Carlisle, her gaze cast to her muddied feet, a weakly mewling infant in her arms.

The forlorn girl seemed to have appeared moments after they'd arrived on the shores of the upstart country in her recollection now, but she knew that was not truly the case. No, they had lingered in New York for a time, but she had been unsurprised to find Edward had no appetite for the busy port city, the noise of human thoughts and activities overwhelming his ability. What was more, their fine clothing, foreign accents, and apparent gentility drew more attention than either Edward or Carlisle were comfortable with. After some discussion, research, and reconnaissance, they had traveled south and west, to the more remote interior where the towns were fewer and farther between, and the mix of immigrants, fortune-seekers, and adventurers made them unremarkable.

Isabella's eyes sank shut as she thought of the little house in the woods, a few miles from where the Cumberland and Caney Fork rivers intersected, and where a small settlement had sprung into being. It was to this settlement that Isabella sojourned each week, a basket slung over her arm for provisions she could not grow in the garden behind the little house. It was in these woods, a mix of white pine, oak and poplars, that Carlisle and Edward hunted the local fauna, more rich and diverse than anything they'd known in the cultivated lands they'd left behind.

She had adapted to life in the wilderness of the Americas in a way that perhaps should not have been surprising given the remoteness of Mousehole. She had enjoyed tending the garden there, and listening to the patter of the rain on the rooftop when the sultry summer brought thunderstorms to the river valley—and perhaps most of all, exploring the wild woods that spilled over the countryside. Edward had disliked this wandering, for he felt a certain wariness of the Chickamauga tribes that were known to linger in the area, hostile towards the foreigners that had steadily poured into land they'd once considered their own.

Perhaps she should have been filled with suspicion at finding the downcast girl upon her stoop, should have hesitated at taking the girl into the small house—should have felt some inkling of what was to come. But she had been filled only with concern for the girl and her child, had only thought of cooling the infant's brow and providing the girl with a bite to eat—for though her skin was coppery, her slight figure and black hair reminded Isabella so of Alice.

She missed the diminutive French girl, though she had come to terms with the fact that Alice had felt her place was with Emmett, helping him establish a life with Rosalie at his side. She missed the companionship of a friend who was much like a sister, for though Carlisle had become less stiffly upstanding with time, his company was not the same as the spritely girl whose abilities were so like Isabella's own.

By the time Edward and Carlisle returned from a hunting trip deep in the mountains east of Carthage, the black-haired girl had fallen as feverish as her baby. The infant had grown disturbingly quiet, cheeks sunken with dehydration, and Isabella was rapidly finding herself at a loss as to what to do.

"There may be nothing you can do," Edward had stated, the words rough, after briefly examining the bedraggled girl and her baby.

Isabella had shaken her head, her gaze fixed on the girl, who lay prone on the bed she and Edward usually shared. "She said," she began, her voice a whisper though she doubted the girl could hear, "she said her brother has turned her away." Isabella had caught her lip beneath her front teeth, thinking of the desperation in the girl's voice as she had tried to explain her circumstances in broken English. "She said she had no where to go."

"And you could not turn her away." Edward's voice had softened, his hand gentle upon her arm.

"Her brother believes it is a white man's illness, which will sicken the rest of his people."

"What makes you think you will not grow ill, too?" Edward's voice had remained gentle, but she could discern the grim meaning in his words.

Her hands twisted beneath her gaze, struggling to raise her eyes—though she found she could not. "I have no such belief."

Words from a conversation long before had echoed in her head as Edward regarded her with silent resignation, a dire remembrance.

_We were attending a performance of Sainte-Colombe's latest piece—chamber music. I'm certain I fell ill there._

And so illness had come, a fever that had left her weak and trembling, delirious and uncertain of her whereabouts. She had dreamed of drowning in the ocean's depths, and of roaring fires consuming her body, her lips growing chapped as she struggled to drink.

She did not recall the change, only the awakening, the feel of the fresh air against skin grown sensitive, the scent of leaf bracken, rich earth, and blooming wildflowers upon the breeze. Though the hour was just before dawn, the sky had appeared bright to her eyes, a hazy glow filling the world with light.

But she had not been able to linger, could not pause in the house that had been their home for a time that seemed all too short in her memory now. They had fled the Tennessee valley that had once been their home, unable to reside in such close quarters to the humans Isabella had once nodded and smiled at on her weekly trips into the little town where the rivers met. Instead, Edward and Carlisle had raced her through the wild forests, pausing only when fierce thirst overtook her—so frequent in those early days, when her limbs seemed to tingle with energy, when her strength and speed still surprised her. They had not ceased moving until they were in the remote north, where they had no concerns about the coming winter—other than ensuring they were not seen by any trappers or tribes.

Isabella's gaze remained distant as she thought of those first weeks and months in the icy wilderness, so different from any landscape she had known. She could still taste the cold air, so crisp and scented with the chill of coming snow…and the fainter, more pungent scent of herds of caribou, their breath blowing warm puffs of clouds into the air in a way her lips no longer could.

Carlisle and Edward had eventually established a base of residence in Quebec City, meaning to pen a letter to Alice to inform her of their circumstances—but instead finding a letter waiting for them with the latest news of life in Brighton with Rosalie and Emmett. Isabella had remained behind during that first and subsequent trips into town, not certain she could trust herself in human company yet—and content to linger in the abandoned trapper's cabin where they'd made their temporary home.

Changed, but the same. She had always been drawn to the out of doors, had so often taken refuge among green and growing things, content to read, to feel the breeze upon her skin and the kiss of the sun's warmth. It was no different in the remote north though she was now surrounded by timbers of pine and wild life she never could have imagined in Cornwall. It was no different but for the thirst that demanded she speed through the brush and forests, intent upon whatever warm, red-blooded creature her senses might detect.

She had begun to venture closer to nearby outposts after a year of isolation, to practice the dance of pretending a humanity she did not feel she had truly lost—though the hunger she felt at the scent of their blood was an all too sobering reminder that she was changed. It was not long after these efforts began that a letter from Alice had warned them of the need to return—though she reassured them that in traveling by standard means they would arrive in time to make their farewells.

This had not prevented Isabella from ceaselessly pacing the decks of the ship on which they'd secured passage to England. Nor had it stopped her from insisting they hurry from the docks of Southampton by inhuman means, darting down back roads and through sparse woodlands faster than any carriage might traverse; Carlisle would follow with their meager luggage and ensure they had private rooms at an inn near their destination.

It was the first return, the first time she had come back to this place…to her home, to the county of her birth…their first return since that fateful night at Tiller's Spring. She had struggled to feel no fear, to remember her own strength and speed and power, but it had been Edward's hand in her own that had spurred her on, giving her the confidence to continue down the narrow country lanes, and on to the remote house in Heamoor.

Though the night had been dark, the sky was milky gray with clouds, giving a blue cast to everything to her too keen gaze. She had paused outside the house, not so dissimilar from the cottage where she had spent most of her early years. She had inhaled deeply and been nearly overcome by the mix of familiar scents: garden soil over freshly trimmed herbs, the buds of flowers just beginning to bloom, the faint coal smoke of kitchen fire mixing with stewing onions, root vegetables, and spices.

"There." Edward's voice had jarred her from her daze, his pale hand lifting to point to the window beneath the eaves. "She must be there."

They had scaled the walls, Isabella briefly freezing when she thought she sensed a movement from within one of the inner rooms of the slumbering house. Edward had silently forced the casement window open, swinging in first before reaching back with an extended hand.

She had taken it, thought she did not need it; she knew she had the physical strength, but she was grateful for the emotional support the gesture represented. Once her feet were beneath her, she had hesitated. The room had been dark but the faint moon illuminated the interior enough for her to make out the old woman beginning to rouse upon the narrow, bowed bed.

"Is it ye, Miss Alice? Are ye here to tell me they are delayed?"

"No," Isabella had instinctively choked out, the word a whisper—before her hands flew to her lips, wondering if Sheil would be able to tell she had been changed by the alteration in her voice.

"Oh, my girl," Sheil's voice exclaimed from the darkness, soft and full of joy. "Oh, my dear girl."

Isabella could linger near the window no longer, rushing towards her former nurse with all of the same joy. She had hesitated only once more, uncertain she should take Sheil's hands when she knew her own to be cold and unyielding, the faint blue of veins at her wrists long gone.

But Sheil did not flinch as cool hands wrapped around her own, her gray head nodding once in acknowledgement. "And so ye are like him now, I expect."

Isabella had swallowed, falling to her knees as she whispered, "Yes. Yes, I am like him now."

"Always knew there was something different about your young gentleman," Sheil had murmured almost as if to herself. It was then that Isabella had seen her blue eyes were milky with cataracts, her gaze nearly blind as her hands tightened around Isabella's own. "I cannot tell ye what relief I felt, knowing ye were with him—knowing ye were safe."

It was as Alice had written. Sheil was fading quickly, frail and increasingly bed-bound with the passage of time—though none of her memory had faded, nor her fieriness lessened.

"Ye were always a willful girl," she had sighed, gently stroking Isabella's hair. Her gaze had lifted, to where Edward hovered near the window. "I can only hope she doesn't give ye too much trouble."

Isabella had nearly laughed through her tears, wishing somehow she could have kept her companion by her side—though she knew it simply was not possible given the circumstances.

They had lingered in the upper room until the sun began to spill over the horizon, a golden glow illuminating the landscape—and a warning that the night could not last.

"Oh, I can be at peace now," Sheil had sighed as she sank into the pillows at her back. "I can be at peace." Her eyes were closed before Isabella had reached the window, and she almost reared back, desperate with worry—but Edward's hand at her wrist stayed the motion, nodding towards the soft rise and fall of Sheil's chest.

Isabella had nodded, realizing the visit had exhausted her failing companion. She had promised herself that she would return that evening, that she would spend every spare moment she might steal with Sheil in her final days or weeks—that she would risk discovery or whatever repercussion might occur for the woman who had stood in for her family after her mother and father were gone.

But when Isabella returned to the small house, venturing over fields and farmland on eager feet, she had found the bed bare, the sheets and counterpane stripped away. It had taken all of her strength to refrain from crying out, her lip caught beneath her teeth as she bit back desperate sobs of loss.

Though she could not show her face at the service, she had watched from a distance, concealed by the bank of trees that shadowed the edges of the graveyard. Her features were drawn as she listened to the vicar consecrate Sheil's body to the earth, her heart filled with denial that this moment was real.

Once the few attendees had departed, Isabella had stolen forward, her expression forlorn as she silently regarded the simple slab marking the place where Sheil rested. She would have cried had she still been capable of it, and she almost wished that her eyes would blur with tears, blotting out this sight, this finality.

She had felt him then, sensing his presence long before she felt his hand at her shoulder, pulling her close. She had shuddered as Edward's arms circled around her, burying her face against his chest as silent sobs shook her body.

Fortunately, Carlisle had not been the only one waiting at the inn following Sheil's modest funeral. Isabella had been stunned to find the girl she had once thought of as a sister in the private rooms abovestairs, her countenance filled with sympathy as she reached a hesitant hand towards Isabella. "I could not be absent for such a loss."

Isabella could sense Alice's worry, that she was uncertain whether resentment lingered over Emmett's impulsive decision—the decision that had broken up their family. Alice's voice was hesitant as she spoke, "Emmett and Rosalie would as lief join us—if you are willing."

But Isabella had never felt resentment, only sadness. She was shaking her head as she spun on her heel to find Edward's gaze, her voice pleading. "You would have done the same for me."

Edward's gaze had fallen, for he knew the truth of her statement, that he would have destroyed the world for her. Though he had once raged at the risk that Emmett had taken in exposing them all, had slammed his fist upon a table as he decried the folly of making off with the daughter of the man who had once attempted to hunt Isabella down, he knew he would have done the same—he would risk everything for her.

He nodded once, though Alice was already jumping up and down, her small hands clapping before her with glee and relief.

And so they had been present for every return to Cornwall, accompanying the companion who had once been the most vulnerable among them. While Rosalie was still troubled by her disfigurement, she had grown confident in the glow of Emmett's adoration, and held no enmity towards Isabella or her mother. What was more, she knew a similar fate awaited her to that of the dark-haired Cornish girl, that either misfortune or the passage of time would secure her future.

They were not always together, for impulses and visions would sometimes send an individual on a course that the others could not follow. But they ultimately always found their way back to one another—and Isabella never returned to Cornwall alone.

Changed…but the same. For all those Isabella had once known in this place were gone. Mr. Snow from whom she had bought bolts of fabric to sew new frocks; Mrs. Berty in her stylish turbans, lingering near the fire as she enjoyed a long gossip with Sheil; Mr. Connor in his soft cap, and his mother in her apron, quietly working in the whitewashed kitchen of Swan Cottage; and Mr. Raginnis, whose surly bull had always behaved like a lamb in her presence. She always detected the scent of rosewater when she returned to these fields and cliffs and clouded skies, would turn her head though she knew there was no circumstance in which she would find her mother returning her gaze—but it was always so when she returned to Cornwall, a place submersed in memories of what once was.

Isabella sensed his presence long before she heard the soft rhythm of footfalls upon the earth, the stiff, windblown grass crunching beneath his familiar tread. She did not turn, her gaze fixed upon the tireless rise and fall of the sea, attuned to the present yet lost in memories. Changed, but the same.

"Love?" his voice was soft, the faintest note of concern tinting the words.

The sigh that passed her lips in reply was all he needed to pull her into his arms; she melted into the warmth of his embrace, closing her eyes as she rested her cheek against the softness of his sweater. Though the darkness behind her lids did not impede the rush of memories that accompanied the motion, she felt safe and comforted and loved in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his waist, thinking of the first time he'd drawn near, moving so quickly to cross to her side that she had frozen in shock—but not fear. Never fear. She recalled the fierceness of his embrace after he'd come upon her in the black woods of Dartmoor, his lips falling to her own with the intensity of his relief. She thought of their wedding in the priest's small rooms above the leather shop in Whitechapel, his amber-flecked eyes filled with the depth of his love for her as he slid the ring bonding them forever over her finger.

"Oh, love, you are always so lost in thought here."

Isabella lifted her head from his chest. "Good thoughts," she murmured. "I promise."

"As you please." He had never expressed reluctance to return to Cornwall, though she could see the concern in his gaze when she insisted upon wandering the country lanes and lonely cliffs on her own.

Her lips curved into a smile as another memory returned. "You should know that it was my insistence upon traversing these roads alone that allowed us to meet."

Edward's brows quirked, his dark eyes briefly narrowing.

She spoke before he could chastise her for her behavior then, her eyes filling with soft laughter. "You would have had no opportunity to make conversation with me should I have been riding in Mr. Connor's wagon—you likely wouldn't have thought to approach me at all."

"You are quite right," Edward admitted. "But," he continued, his arms briefly tightening around her frame, "I like to think there were greater forces at work than your perpetual desire to be out of doors—in all weather I might add." He lifted his head, having detected the faint dampness of a rain drop falling from the sky.

"Fate?" Isabella asked, her voice teasing. "Or Alice?"

"Perhaps both," Edward wryly replied, pulling away only to link his arm through hers. "Shall we return?"

"Are they all waiting for me?" Isabella asked, filled with sudden contrition.

Edward's eyes betrayed the faintest mix of frustration and amusement as he replied, "Oh, Alice might learn patience given she has eternity to play charades with you—or whatever it is she has decided will occupy us all this evening."

Isabella could not help a faint frown as they began the walk back to the cottage they had rented for the summer, only a few miles south of Penzance. "Such games are always an exercise in frustration for everyone else given Alice can always guess what's coming—"

"And you are no slack yourself," Edward interrupted, leaning towards her to drop a swift kiss upon her temple. "Which is why I always prefer to be on your team."

Isabella gasped, "But you always insist husbands should be paired with wives!"

"Because otherwise Alice would insist upon partnering with you—and then none of us should stand a chance."

Isabella could only laugh, her hand tightening around his own as the cottage came into sight, the sound of distant laughter and conversation audible to their keen ears.

"Come, love," Edward bid. "Let us return home."


End file.
